


The Odds Were Never In Our Favor

by SpectralSkyscraper



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Death, Gen, Gender Non-Conforming Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Harassment, They/Them Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Trans Character, Trans Toby Smith | Tubbo, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectralSkyscraper/pseuds/SpectralSkyscraper
Summary: Dream has never set foot out of the wilds, their sanctuary beyond the gate of District 12. He and his mother live a simple and happy life, and besides the occasional wandering Peacekeeper- their days are peaceful. It doesn't last long. The Capitol always finds you, one way or another.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 117
Kudos: 288





	1. Act 1 Part 1: The Out There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely necessary preamble!!  
> I have changed the rules and lore of the Hunger Games as I see fit, and I’ve basically just taken the idea for this fic. In this version, the age cap for the reaping is 35, and the youngest tributes can be is 15. Tributes from districts are any randomly picked two people, not necessarily a boy and a girl every time. You don’t need to have read or watched the Hunger Games series to understand this fic, but it certainly helps. If anyone has any questions at all abt my altered lore, pls ask!!!  
> Also if you see a typo, no you don't.

Dream has never left the wilds. It's not that he's sheltered, or scared- he knows of the world out there. Of Panem, of all twelve districts, of the Capitol, and of the Games. His mother is not a strict woman but knowledge of the dangers beyond their stretch of woods was one thing she refuses to let her son to go without.  
  
One of the first things she teaches Dream about are the Games. Everyone has two names, Ma' says to a 5-year-old Dream, as they gut fish by the stream for tonight's dinner. A first and a last name, that tells the Capitol what family you're from. Your name goes into a mix, and every year people get picked to fight for the entertainment of those in the Capitol. Dream understands fighting. It was his first language, for before all else, Ma' taught Dream to protect himself. He can even grasp entertainment, though the idea of having to hurt someone to make others happy sickens him and sends a pang of fear down his spine. It's the names that confuse him for hours, for all he's ever been is Dream, and all she's ever been is Ma'.  
  
"I had a name, Dream, sweetie," Ma' chuckles to his questions and curiosity.  
  
"What _was_ your name?" he asks with all the reverence and edge-of-your-seat insistence a 5-year-old can muster. Ma' laughs and tells him to pay attention to the fish he's gutting. He's gotten the blood and viscera onto his pants. He doesn't ask again; he knows that Ma' is just Ma'. He thinks she probably had to give up a lot to have just one name, and not two like the people in the districts. Dream hopes he never has to have two names. He hopes he never has to live like the people in the districts. He remembers his mother's smile that day when he cleaned a fish correctly for the first time. 

Ma' teaches him how to spear a wild moose to the ground. How to strip and cook the meat. Dream learns how to climb up the trees that seem to stretch for miles and miles, farther than his neck can crane to see. He learns how to sew, weave, trade. Ma' is always teaching him something useful, day after day. Dream is content, but he gets curious. 

So one day, when he is tall enough to scramble out of his hammock without his mother's help and down the tall evergreen undetected, he slips away for a peak outside of their camp. Scrawny as he is, it's the easiest thing to slide between the weathered wood of their fence, over the rocks of the nearby stream, away and away until he can no longer see the camp behind him. Maybe the wilds go on forever. Maybe the Capitol is on the other side of the world, because all Dream can see is trees and green and moss and leaves. 

That is, until Dream spots the end. A few hundred feet away, the woods thin out into nothing but grass, and past that clearing is the oddest thing he's ever seen. There is a fence, like Ma' and Dream's that keep their chickens in, but it is much taller, and constructed out of metal, like one of the necklaces Ma' wears, old and cold and glinting in the early dawn. He wonders why a fence would need to be so tall. Maybe the fence is made to keep people in, instead of chickens. Dream doesn't like the idea of having to live behind a fence. He's so unnerved by the sight of it that he takes a step back, and then another. And another, until he turns around to run home and crashes into something with a shout that goes muffled behind a hand, quick to grab him tight. 

He looks up, and it's only Ma', white as snow and lips clamped shut. Dream doesn't struggle, but she holds him crushingly tight anyways, and they don't move for many silent, tense moments. Suddenly, she lifts him up and runs back the way they came. She doesn't put him down until they get back to their little wooden fence. He thinks it looks a lot nicer than the odd metal one by the clearing. 

Ma' sets him down, and does not speak while she sets about lighting their morning cookfire. Her hands are shaking, and her mouth is still set in a thin line. Dream gets the sinking feeling that he's in trouble, and at least tries to look sheepish. Finally, after what seems like hours, Ma' turns to look at him where she put him down on an overturned log. She walks closer, her feet silent against the forest floor, and squats so that she's at eye-level with him.

"Dream," she says, and it's so unlike her in the way she says it that he almost jolts. She holds both his little hands in her worn and scarred ones, and grips tight so he knows to listen closely. "You cannot _ever_ do that again. Ever. You have to promise me." Ma' looks scared, and it's startling enough to him to scare him too, and he promises her. The next day, Ma' ties a bright green tape of fabric to the base of the tree Dream stopped at yesterday. "This is as far as we go," she says, resolute. Dream toes the edge of the green ribbon and tries not to look back when they turn to walk home.   
  
With that, the lessons begin. Ever since Dream had been old enough to listen but still young enough to sink tiny, tiny toes into cool woodland floor and cling to his mother's tattered and well worn skirt, he has been learning about the "Out There".  
  
Out There, the people live sad little lives in their sad little districts. Out There, they do their sad little jobs and quake in fear when one of the sad little Peacemakers come marching along. They are the worst of the lot, Mother explains at length to Dream a soft summer day, when he's old enough to understand. He is eleven now. He can kill and cook his own food, and climb to the tallest spruce in their camp. Dream is learning to shoot while his mother speaks in a low voice, lest she spook the game. Peacekeepers are traitors, servants to the Capitol and always ready to squash someone weaker than them under their thumb. Ex-Peacekeepers and retirees can sometimes be trusted, but you can never be too careful. They are good for trading fabrics and medicine, things Dream and Ma' need but can't make, and to keep their mouths shut about the well kept secret of the family in the wilds, but that is all.  
  
Out There is full of danger- and not the kind Dream is used to. Dream has broken bones, has fought for his food before, and has the scars to prove it. Slashes from a boar's tusks here, darkened and raised skin from a nasty fall when he was eight and the bone had stuck out his leg. This all pales in comparison to what would happen if a real Peacekeeper found them, Ma' stresses.  
  
"If you ever see a Peacekeeper, Dream," she says, "you run." Dream nods, wide eyed and full of thoughts of frightening figures in all grey. His mother runs a hand through his shaggy hair. He had refused to let her cut it this summer.  
  
"If you can't run, Dream, you kill them." Dream nods again, trying to settle his shaky aim on the gangly turkey-vulture near a distant rock.  
  
"Do you understand, Dream?"  
  
"Mm-hm." He tightens his grip on the string, the fletching feathers on the end of the arrow flutter, and the pretty colors catch his eye. Mother huffs, half in good natured exasperation and half with something Dream can't decipher. Something desperate.  
  
"If you see a Peacekeeper, Dream, what do you do?" She seems serious this time, her expression stony as she sets a calloused hand on his shoulder. He sighs, and pulls the string back tight as it will go.  
  
"If I ever see a Peacekeeper, Ma', I'll kill them."  
  
The bird has an arrow through the eye before it even hears the thwip of the bow release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i know it seems a bit slow right now, but trust me- this is all for a reason!  
> me @ all this backstory: "it's a surprise tool that will help us later"
> 
> no frfr tho, please leave a comment and try and bear with me for these first couple chapters, we'll get to the games before you know it :)


	2. Act 1 Part 2: The Night Before The End Of The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was your age," she begins, slowly, "When my name was called in the Reaping."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapter:  
> Blood  
> Murder  
> Attempted sexual assault of a minor  
> Physical assault of a minor  
> Panic Attacks

The night before the end of the world as Dream knows it, they have squirell for dinner. He is 19 today; his mother keeps track with a calendar traded for meat from an Ex-Peacekeeper. Squirell has always been his favorite, light yet fatty, and they sip spring water and munch on blueberries as a rare treat to mark the occassion. 

On his lap sits a mask made of the smooth and flat part of a moose's antler, bleached a startling white. It has soft straps that secure at the back of his head with a simple brass buckle. Carved into it and further outlined with a deep black paint, are a children's version of eyes and a smile- Dream was 12 when he made his first mask and didn't have a very steady hand. The style just carried on through the years, an inside joke between him and Ma'.

He's had a mask for years now, ever since the first stray Peacekeeper wandered into their stretch of forest. He will never know what the woman was doing there. It wasn't important. The second she had laid eyes on Dream, she raised her gun to him. He was alone today- Ma' had gone to the stream to bathe and relax. He can't let this woman, this Peacekeeper fire this gun. The sound will carry for miles, the woman's people will hear, it'll all be over. 

Dream raised his hands above his head, and resisted the urge to back away. He had his back to a tree anyways, where he had been collecting sap. He was cornered. Sweat drips down his back, hot summer humidity making his shoulder length hair stick to his face- the panic not helping. 

Roughly ten feet away from him, stood the Peacekeeper. She wears all grey, and her helmet is clipped to her belt at her waist. She has since lowered her gun, and Dream feels himself take his first deep breath in minutes. 

He puts his hands down, and doesn't reach for his hatchet strapped to the small of his back quite yet. Maybe she was nice, like the retirees that would trade with Ma' in the winter months. She is tall, with short cropped brown hair that falls to her cheeks and cold, blue eyes. She can't be from District 12, she's too well fed, too unblemished- too clean. She looks like District 1 material. Dream feels underdressed in his sleeveless shirt and bare feet and patchwork pants. 

The Peacekeeper levels a look at Dream, and he can't decipher it. He tries not to run when she steps towards him. 

"What are you doing so far past the gate?" she grunts, and Dream sighs in relief. She thinks he's from Twelve. He only has to play along now, but options are quickly dwindling in his head. She'll tell someone, surely. They will kill him and Ma' if they find them. He doesn't know what to do. He can't run, and he doesn't want to kill this woman, no matter what he's promised Ma'. He's starting to panic. 

The Peacekeeper picks up on his silence snd snarls, affronted at the lack of respect, and stomps over to him, taking advantage of his frozen state, shoving a gloved hand into his hair and throwing him to the ground. He doesn't cry out when he feels a sharp rock slice across his lip, spilling hot blood across his face. Never show weakness. He scrambles to grab his hatchet from his belt but she's quicker than him, twisting his wrists behind his back and pinching sharply at the nerves there. He tastes copper, his head is fuzzy. 

He kicks, hard, and nails the Peacekeeper in the thigh, knocking her off balance and he throws himself to get his back to the ground, hatchet in hand. She didn't expect him to fight back. He's upright now, but it's shaky- he thinks he hit his head. He sees blood drip into his right eye and he knows he's right.

"Stupid, _fucking_ District 12 brat." She's seething, blood running from her nose from where she fell after Dream kicked her. Her hand goes to her gun; he blanches. 

" _Stupid_ little boy- think you're such a, think you're such a fucking big man," she spits blood onto the ground, and Dream steadies himself on a tree behind him. The world's still spinning. He wants his mother. He doesn't like the way this woman is looking at him. She's smiling at him, cruelly. It feels _wrong_.

"I'm gonna shoot your god damned knees out and I'll show you what a big man you are, little fuckin' brat-" The hand that's not on the gun moves to her belt- 

And falls limply to the forest floor, handgun similarly tumbling with a soft thump to the ground. Her eyes are wide open, and between them is the green-corded handle of Dream's hatchet. He blinks. Looks to his empty hand, still extended in a throw. 

The Peacekeeper has blood pooling around her head, staining that dark hair a dirty burgundy. Dream wills his hands not to shake, his eyes not to tear up. He's a few good miles from District 12's fence. She was alone, and probably just looking for somewhere to take her break. She was not followed. Dream is safe. He's safe. He brings his hands up to his mouth, retches. 

Hours later, after he's hacked into her enough to make her death look like a wild animal attack and left her body closer to the fence, covered his tracks and the blood with overturned dirt and leaves, Dream allows his trembling legs to walk himself home. 

The Peacekeepers in Twelve aren't even looking for her yet. They will see her splayed and mangled and think a wolf or a coyote got to her, and they will not venture into the wilds to further investigate. He mumbles his mantra over to himself as the sky dims overhead, and the wilds grow quiet with dusk. Ma' must be worried, he's been out all day. A chunk of the Peacekeeper's white helmet clanks against his hatchet at his belt. A trophy, he justifies. If he ever saw a Peacekeeper, he'd kill them. He promised. He tries not to think about the crusting blood under his fingernails or the throbbing cut at his lip. 

When Ma' turns from the steaming dinner of chicken and potatoes to welcome him home, she nearly screams. Her baby is _covered_ in blood. She rushes to him, he's only 12- what _happened-_ and sinks to her knees in front of him, checking him for injuries. 

"I saw a Peacekeeper." 

Her heart drops into her stomach. She pauses in using the edge of her skirt to clean the cuts on his face. 

"I killed her. It's okay Ma', I killed her." He's got that wobbly lip that indicates it's too tough for her little Dream to keep up his big strong front, and she cradles him when he collapses into her arms, finally acting his age and sobbing. 

He tells her everything, while she cleans him up and sews up the worst of his cuts, and she tries not to vomit at what could have happened to him. She gives him second and third helpings that night and lets him sleep in her hammock. He doesn't stray from her side for months, and she doesn't have the heart to discourage it. 

He brings the chunk of hemlet to her one day, and asks her to paint it for him. He wants a mask.

"Why do you need a mask?" She asks, not unkindly. He stares at the ground and mumbles his answer, "I don't want them to know when I'm scared. She knew I was scared. She knew." 

She has him paint it instead, a crude little smile that makes her giggle when he lifts the plastic to his face for a "fitting". She files the edges down and sews leather straps onto it so it won't fall off of him. Dream feels brave with it on, and rarely takes it off when away from Ma'. 

He outgrows that mask, but keeps it anyways. He makes new ones throughout the years, but none so fine as this gift his mother has painstakingly crafted for his 19th birthday.

He thinks of all the furs, meat, and other goods Ma' must have traded to gift him such a treasure. He hasn't taken the mask off all day except to eat and wash, and it makes Ma' smile with an exasperated fondness.

Early autumn turns the air crisp and he tries not to let the slight chill seep through his clothes, pulling his poncho and calf length skirt tighter around his body. Ma' takes notice, because that's what she does, and throws one of their blankets at him. Dream can't help but grin at her laugh, despite his whining. He wrangles himself out of the tangle of blanket and pops the last blueberry into his mouth. It's sweet and tart and has a sense of finality to it. The last vestiges of summer, he supposes.

It's dark already, the sun sets so early this time of year, and the greens and browns of the forest around them bleed into murkiness around their cookfire. It's not yet late enough to climb the trees to their hammocks, but late enough for Ma' to break out the ale (she only let him take small sips since last year, much to his chagrin). She only brings the ale out when its time for a serious talk. Dream hates serious talks. He bunches his hands into the blanket.

"I was your age," she begins, slowly, "When my name was called in the Reaping," she says, hushed and ominously underlit by the fire. Dream doesn't know what to say. He doesn't have to, when Ma' continues. 

"I was lucky. I got away. I never made it to the Games." She bites her lip, wraught with memories and a nostalgia and longing for a life Dream will never be able to understand. A life she never intends for him to lead. She told him about how she was from District 8 when he was young. There are nights where all she can remember are the sounds of textile machinery that took fingers off those who weren't careful, and of the thick, cloying smell of factory smoke. 

"On the way to the Capitol, our train stopped for servicing in District 12, and I- I just slipped away. Maybe they thought I was kidnapped, or, or, lost- but I had you," she grows more upset with each word, and Dream leans forward, food and ale forgotten as he lays comforting hands on her shaking ones. 

"I had you and I hadn't told anyone, but I knew I would die in the Games. I was weak, I was pregnant, and I would have died and then I would never have gotten to meet you." Ma' smiles, watery, and sighs once, short, almost a sob. 

He leans against her, and they rock back and forth as the fire warms his back. "Its okay Ma'," he soothes. "It's okay. They're not looking anymore. A Peacekeeper has never seen us and lived. It's been years and we'll never have to play in a Game. Ever." 

He feels her let out a long breath and she pats his back to let her up. All signs of the scared young mother are gone, and it's like Ma' never brought the ale out to begin with. 

"That's right. We're careful and we don't leave the wilds. There's nothing out there for us. The Capitol can't reach us here." She grins, and starts putting out the fire and lifting herself up the first few footholds to her hammock in the tree. Dream returns the smile and pretends like he doesnt slip a few times in the sudden dark when he begins to climb as well. He's always been the clumsier one of the two, and he feels his ears heat up as Ma's telltale chuckle sounds out into the night.

When they get to the top, safe off the ground from anything that could hurt them and bundled into their blankets, he speaks.

"Tomorrow, lets go for a swim in the stream. It's probably our last chance before it gets too cold." Ma' brightens, Dream can hear it in her voice, even if he can't see her. She's always loved swimming. 

"Sounds like a plan, Dream." 

They sleep soundly that night, and Dream thinks of cold refreshing spring water and the crunch of autumnal leaves under his feet.

He wakes to a hum so deep and loud he can feel it in his chest. Leaves and wind whip his hood into his face, and he's alert immediately. It's dawn, and when he looks down to see what on Earth is going on, he sees nothing. He looks to his left, and his mother stares straight up, pale and quiet with abject horror on her face. Dream looks up, and feels his entire being lock up in terror and confusion.

There, only 50 feet above the tips of the spruces they sit in, is a Capitol hovercraft. 

They never do get to swim in the stream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, tell me what you liked, what you didnt like- id love to hear your thoughts so far!


	3. Act 1 Part 3: The Last Hurrah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dream snaps his hand out at the last second to snatch his mask from his blankets and secure it to his face, strands of mussed hair getting caught and snagged in the process. Then, he leaps."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Panic/Intense descriptions of fear  
> Blood and gore (nothing too incredibly serious or fatal)

For several quiet minutes, all Dream can hear is the bone deep, frantic thumping of his own heart in his ears. This is not like a stray Peacekeeper he's had to kill and bury, this is not a wild coyote rampaging through their camp; this is unlike anything they’ve seen before. This is true, complete danger. They're going to die. He feels his throat close and heat rise to his face. His eyes burn. He can't breathe. They're going to die.

Get a hold of yourself. Calm down. You're  _ not _ going to die today. He steels himself, takes a quiet,  _ quiet  _ breath and looks to his mother to gauge her reaction. They can handle this. They can. They have to.

Ma' has clamped her jaw shut tight, and is looking at him, a finger raised to her lips for silence. Her eyes are blown wide; her hair is a mess from sleep. They’re not prepared for this. He doesn't understand how they were found. It's been months since their last trade, wouldn't the hovercraft have arrived then? Why  _ now _ ? 

It makes no sense- no  _ fucking _ sense, but they've got to move. The hovercraft is above the center of camp, not quite so close now to the trees they sleep in. The Peacekeepers must see the cookfire, the few animals in the fence they keep, their laundry and trinkets and tables and Dream's old toys- all signs of a happy life beyond the fence that has never been tolerated, and won't be tolerated now. They're going to send people down here to find them and kill them, or worse. A cursory glance around tells him that they are well-hidden, surrounded by thick swathes of pine needles. He can tell from memory that if holding still, he and Ma’ would be hard to see from this distance.

Dream's hatchet is with him in his hammock; he sends a thankful prayer to anything that's listening and slides it into his belt, pulling his poncho over his head and tucking it into the belt as well. They cannot afford a careless snag on a branch right now. He thanks his past self for wearing a set of fitted pants under his skirt- it will be easier to run this way. A few feet away, Ma' has the same idea, slipping into her boots, a habit from District life she'd never been able to kick, unlike Dream's bare feet that were made for padding through the forest.

The hovercraft hasn't moved, and the noise and wind of it all starts to make him nauseous. He glances at his mother, and together they silently slip out of their beds and look for a close enough tree to jump to. Something sturdy, so that there will be no quiver of branches to alert the people above of their location. He sends a longing look to their chickens and pigs below, they have to leave them behind. He hopes they'll be okay. Maybe they can come back and set them free to the wilds where they found them years ago. But not now. There’s no time. 

Dream snaps his hand out at the last second to snatch his mask from his blankets and secure it to his face, strands of mussed hair getting caught and snagged in the process. Then, he leaps.

The landing isn’t as smooth as he would have liked- sleep still sticks his eyes and slows his movements, and he slits his palms open on the rough bark of the oak, scrambling for a hold. He catches a branch, and his feet push off the body of the tree, throwing himself to the next one. Ma’ isn’t far behind him, and they move as quietly as they can, until they are roughly ten trees away. Dream tries not to smash his face into the tree when he sees Ma’ stop suddenly- too suddenly. 

He whips his head back to the hovercraft, long ropes with circular platforms lower slowly, and at the end of each- Dream counts three- is a Peacekeeper. Terror fills him. He remembers his first mask. He brings a hand to the hatchet at his waist, just to remind himself it’s there. 

He looks to his mother for guidance, and his eyes widen when he sees her begin to shimmy down the tree.

_ “Don’t.”  _ He mouths down to her.  _ Don’t. _

She sees him, but doesn’t listen. The wind picks up, he hears the stomp of the Peacekeepers below, growing steadily closer as they make a slow circle around their camp. The breeze twists Ma’s golden hair in wild ringlets around her head, he sees where the trees have cut into her hands and bare knees where her long skirt has ridden up. She looks run down. She looks tired. Dream is struck with the realization that his mother has been hiding and running and scavenging for scraps for nineteen years. 

She’s close to the ground now, and Dream is frozen where he sits perched high in the air. His muscles scream, and he feels like he might scream too. Ma’ looks up one more time, and Dream’s face is wet. She doesn’t smile at him, not quite, but he knows she’s trying to. Then, she lets go. Time suspends as he can’t look away from the sight of his mother falling that last stretch of distance to the forest floor.

There’s a dull thump as she hits the ground, and she hits it running. The noise alerts the Peacekeepers and Dream watches, mouth opened in a silent cry as they thunder through the woods after her. When they pass, they do not see him. The wilds grow quiet, only the sounds of careless footsteps and quieter, softer footfalls ahead. It’s as if the animals here know to hide as well.

The hovercraft moves, towards where he knows the District 12 gate lies, and the gust of wind shocks Dream out of his frozen state. He doesn’t think about the guns the Peacekeepers were holding. He doesn’t think about how Ma’ left her knife by the campfire. She was unarmed; she was alone. He trembles. It’s time to be brave. He takes three long seconds to calm himself, and swings down from his perch to a branch much closer to the ground- his joints shock and scream at him where he catches it with the crook of his hatchet. It hurts, badly, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on the pain. He uses the momentum to free the blade of the small axe and he falls the last few feet to the floor. 

Deep, shuddering breaths wrack his frame, and he feels like every nerve in his body is alight. It’s all too much, too loud, too cold. Grounding himself by digging his toes into the dirt and brush, Dream kicks off in a sprint in the direction Ma’ ran. She’s going to kill him for this, he chuckles to himself. She’s going to kill him for wasting this chance if a Peacekeeper doesn’t get to him first. 

When he catches up, still a distance away so he can blend into the trees and bushes, Ma’ is on the ground, and it sends a fury through him. Ma’ is on the ground, but so are two of the Peacekeepers. He can see where Ma’s knuckles have been split open and bloodied. There are weapons and helmets scattered in the clearing, as if she had ripped them right off of the soldiers and scratched and bit and hit whatever she could get her hands on. The last, lone Peacekeeper stands above her, gun raised and braced against their shoulder. Ma’ lies between their feet, unconscious. He springs into action.

It all happens very quickly- the Peacekeeper hears soft but quick footfalls behind him and he turns, only to face a terrifying alabaster-white mask and a raised hatchet. It sinks into the Peacekeeper’s trigger finger and slices across his knuckles and palm, and he screams, dropping his gun. 

Dream stands above the soldier, who curls into himself and screams and screams, pointer finger sitting innocently in the grass by Dream’s left foot. Dream raises the hatchet again, breaths coming fast now, autumnal chill sinking into his bones, and he feels the air leave him as something hits the back of his head, knocking him to the ground, hard.

Dream knocks his skull against the tough woodland floor and feels woozy and faint, despite the fire within him spurring him to  _ get up, get up, get up.  _ Out of the corner of his eye, he sees two more figures in all grey- one with the butt of their gun still raised where they’d hit Dream upside the head, and another crouched before the Peacekeeper he’d maimed. 

The last thing Dream sees before closing his eyes are the figures creeping closer slowly, as if they fear him now, and all he can think, smugly, is  _ good. _ Confusingly, Dream notices the District 12 fence several yards off. He didn’t realize how close the chase had brought them to it. He frowns, as sleep and exhaustion and pain start to drag him under. For a second there, he thought he saw someone with dark hair standing on the other side of the fence, eyes blown wide at the scene before them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall im sorry i have a hard time writing action lol. who's standing beyond the fence? stay tuned and find out...


	4. Act 1 Part 4: Paradigm Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What were you doing in the wilds?” It doesn’t sound like a question. It is a demand. He sweats under her stare, and he settles on his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Kidnapping  
> Dissociation

Dream wakes for the second time that day, disgruntled and with an odd sense that he should be in pain, but isn't. He's also wearing different clothes. Gone are his many layers of green and brown, his hatchet, and, most unsettling- his mask. Dream lays bare faced, and dressed in something paper thin and scratchy, a short sleeved shirt and pants made of thin cotton- starched white as the walls and lights and machines that surround him. They beep, softly, with thin wires that stick to his chest and his head. He hates them. He wants it all off,  _ now _ .

The scrapes on his hands and feet are gone, he notices when he looks to them, but stops short at the white belts and buckles holding his wrists to the bed he lies in. He’s never laid in a bed before, and it feels much too hard for anyone to get any sleep in. He wants to be curled up in his hammock again. He wants to be home. He cranes his neck and feels no bruise or swelling at the back of his head where he knows blood had seeped into the long hair there, after he’d been knocked to the ground next to Ma’.

Where  _ is _ Ma'? For that matter, where is  _ he _ ? She had been breathing where she was dropped to the leafy floor. He is sure of it. He takes a couple moments to breathe slowly, push the rising panic and worry down, and assess.

He must be on the hovercraft, and that means Ma' is somewhere on board as well. The room he's in is empty- if he had to bet, the clear double doors directly ahead of him are locked. The straps keeping his wrists locked down are fabric, a tight weave, but fabric nonetheless, and he grins. That was  _ stupid _ of them. He curls his right hand inward, and uses a sharp index fingernail to push between the weave of the fabric- he knows he can't cut it, but if he works carefully and slowly, he can separate the strands enough to loosen the whole thing just a bit, there; he slips his hand out of the loop and sets to work on undoing the one on his left arm. He refuses to acknowledge his shaking hands. He will have time for a breakdown later. 

The room has nothing to hide behind, save the bed itself. The many machines are too narrow to use as cover, and everything has soft, rounded edges. There is nothing he can use here to hurt someone, and it frustrates him immensely. He’s never felt so helpless. 

He swings his feet to the floor when he’s done with the remaining restraint, and shivers at the cool stainless-steel finish. He absolutely does  _ not _ yelp in surprise when the doors  _ whoosh _ open at the other side of the room, and in walks two noticeably less-armed Peacekeepers. They both wield a stun gun, and a baton, and nothing else. No guns, no knives. It unnerves him. Between the two soldiers, stands a woman with bright blue hair, coiled into an immaculate and intricate bun at the top of her head. She wears many colors, all woven into a tight-fitting dress that falls to stiletto covered feet. She cannot possibly be able to hunt in that, and then he realizes: she’s from the Capitol. Ma’ explained the odd fashions and mannerisms of the people in the Capitol, but this is still shocking. His rising amusement at the woman’s ridiculous outfit wars with his deep seated and innate fear of all things Capitol-related. He’s sure he could outrun her if he had to (what are those shoes even meant to  _ achieve _ ), but the Peacekeepers that bracket her convince him otherwise. Who knows if the doors would even open for him? He clenches his hands into tight, waiting fists- just to be safe. 

The woman looks him up and down in obvious distaste at his scars and knotted hair and freed hands. He scowls right back. Suddenly, as if she is an entirely different person, the woman smiles primly at him, and waves a flippant hand to him. “Follow me,” she quips, voice high and proper sounding. She turns on a sparkling pink heel, and starts walking. The Peacekeepers stare at him through blank black visors, and he feels himself stand numbly. He follows, and a sinking feeling of dread hits as the odd automatic doors slide shut again behind him.

* * *

They walk through a number of winding halls, and Dream gives up on trying to memorize the lefts and rights after the 21st turn. The woman in the shimmering kaleidoscope of clothing breaks off to step into a room. He stretches hard to try and see into it, but the door is already shut, and the Peacekeeper on his right nudges him to keep walking. They arrive a few minutes later to the only room at the end of a long hallway. 

The two soldiers place a hand on each of his shoulders and unceremoniously shove him down into a rigid, plastic chair. They take both his wrists, after Dream tried biting at the Peacekeeper on the left for staring too much, and lock them into chilled metal cuffs that attach to the table. There is give to the chain, but not much. He hunches over to tuck some hair behind his ear. His cheek stings where the affronted nearly bitten soldier had backhanded him. They both stand quietly behind him now. Dream waits. He waits and waits until he feels sleep tug at him again. He slams a hand onto the metal table, rattling the chain and waking himself. He hears one of the Peacekeepers jump, and snickers openly. 

His laughing cuts itself off as the door opens. Dream tries not to think of himself as a sitting duck, chained here with nothing but his teeth and nails to protect himself with. The glittering woman enters, and stops short at the red mark on his face. Her head whips to the Peacekeepers, and the one that jumped points without a word to the one that hit Dream.  _ No honor among Capitol dogs _ , Dream thinks to himself. The Capitol woman raises a gloved delicate hand, and points to the door, fuming. The guilty soldier huffs and sputters, “He tried to fucking  _ bite _ -”

“I. Do. Not.  _ Care. _ Get  _ out.  _ There wasn’t supposed to be a scratch on either of them. You are absolutely  _ useless  _ I swear!” 

Her voice, though soft and dainty, like all things in the Capitol, leaves no room for argument. The Peacekeeper leaves, and the woman is all smiles and politeness again. She sits, a grand affair with all her skirts and sequins and glitter, right across from Dream, and passes him a steaming glass mug. It looks expensive. “Would you like a cup of coffee, dear?” she asks, raising her own extravagant glass to painted, holographic lips. 

“A cup of  _ what?” _ He can’t help himself, he had been planning not to say a word to any of them, but the culture shock is too much. He’s overwhelmed- hallways, bright useless fabrics, machines- he’s never even set foot in a building in his life and he’s about had it for how much he can tolerate. 

She laughs, loud, like bells and it grates on his fraying nerves. Maybe this is all a scheme to wear him down into answering their questions. Then, she sets her cup down, and forces eye contact. 

“What were you doing in the wilds?” It doesn’t sound like a question. It is a demand. He sweats under her stare, and he settles on his story. The safest approach is the truth; he doesn’t know what they will do to his mother if they catch him in a lie. Still, he treads carefully.

“I...live there,” he says, slowly, as if she’s going to bite him. She only sighs, long suffering and face upturned in irritation. The long painted nails of her left, un-gloved hand tap in a rhythm he doesn’t recognize against the table.

“Do you understand the unique position you have put us in, Dream?” He doesn’t know where she got his name, but he knows her question isn’t one meant to be answered. He feels like a child receiving a scolding. He sits quietly, staring back at her. His dead-eyed stare had frightened and unsettled a few traders in the wilds before; it might be his only weapon here.

“You were  _ seen. _ By a citizen of District 12, Dream,” she continues. He doesn’t like how casually she uses his name. She rolls her eyes. “This could all be so easily solved by killing you and your mother, and then that boy,” she seems almost excited about the idea, but deflates quickly. “But- alas, he has a family who would notice his disappearance, and he  _ saw _ your little meltdown in the forest. No one has ever attacked a Peacemaker and lived. District 12 has been on the edge of revolt for months now, did you know that, dear?” He didn’t, and he shakes his head dumbly. She smiles again, sickeningly sweet. He sees glints of gold and silver in her teeth. 

“Listen closely. I, despite how nicely I ask, am not allowed to do away with you. Or the woman.  _ Or _ the boy. It is  _ very _ frustrating. We will have to approach this carefully. I’m sure you understand,” she says, slowly, as if he’s a child.

“Yeah, I think I do,” he replies, wishing he could wrap his hands around her thin little neck and squeeze until she was gone. He curls his fingers against the tabletop instead. The woman brightens, and he pays attention to the light glinting off her sparkling hat instead of her annoying voice. 

“Wonderful! Since this little... issue cannot be resolved so simply, then you’ll be willing to play along.”

“Play along with what?” he cringes away from her. He misses the wilds so sorely it aches in his chest. 

“ _ You _ ,” she jabs a sharp finger to his chest, “Are a refugee from District 11. Your home was lost to a stray wildfire and when a job opened up in the coal mines in District 12, your family immigrated. Your father,  _ poor _ thing that he was, did not make the trip and you now live with your surviving mother in the home he recently bought for you.” She slides a map of Twelve at him to look at, and circled there is what looks like a small building on the outskirts of the town, far from the other residences. Dream doesn’t even know what to say. She doesn’t mean they’re going to make him and Ma’  _ live  _ in Twelve, right? They would never live in a District, they lived in the wilds. Dream was never meant to live among the districts. He growls out a simple, “Bullshit.” The woman, whose name Dream still hasn’t caught, finally makes a frown at him, and carries on like he never opened his mouth.

“That little  _ scuffle _ in the woods was simply a misunderstanding- no harm was inflicted to you or your mother, or any of the brave Peacekeepers on the scene.”

“Tell that to Nubby the Peacekeeper,” he scoffs, still proud of how clean the cut had been. She ignores him and he can  _ hear _ the Peacekeeper behind him stiffen, reminded of the gory scene.

She carries on, and it irks him. “You were desperately lost beyond the gate and they escorted you safely to a hovercraft,” she raises a hand daintily to her chest, “out of the  _ kindness _ of their hearts.” She grows serious, “You live in District 12 now, Dream; you lived your entire life in District 11 before that, and you will never tell a soul otherwise.” 

Dream practically flies out of his seat, slamming both hands against the table. Coffee sloshes out of both cups and across the woman’s lap. She shrieks, and the Peacekeeper hesitates, seeing where Dream is still secured to the table in chains. “ _ Fucking  _ bullshit. I won’t play your stupid little game and we won’t live in your useless districts, no matter wh-”

“This is  _ taffeta _ you oaf!” Dream can’t believe this woman. He feels twenty years older; he is tired. Still, he seethes and hisses when the woman stands and shoves him roughly into his seat. He grows still when she produces a little disk- above it, flashes images, holograms, before settling on his-

“Ma’!,” he cries involuntarily, and leans forward to stare at the image. In it, his mother receives the same treatment as him, and looks, thankfully, perfectly fine. The coffee to her right is half-finished and she speaks words he cannot hear to an equally extravagantly dressed individual as his interrogator. Her hands are free. She must not have tried to bite anyone, Dream thinks, and sinks into his chair, relieved beyond belief to see her unharmed. He looks up at the woman, and she snaps the disk shut- the image of his mother goes dark and he tries not to mourn it.

“You will do this. Or I will send a Peacekeeper to your house, and they will come while you sleep, and they will shoot her down. I promise you that.” It is only now that Dream really fears her, and he feels the chill of the room ice into his bare feet. He believes her. 

* * *

No force can keep Dream and Ma’ separated when the interrogators let them see each other, and no one tries to stop their tearful embrace. It’s almost insulting, how little a threat they pose to the gussied up Capitol representatives and the armored Peacekeepers. It stings at his ego, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Ma’ is  _ fine  _ and he sobs dryly. He refuses to cry in front of this group of Capitol scum. 

The group of soldiers and both glittering, overdressed agents lead Dream and Ma’ to a dim room, with the faint outlines of circles in the floor with what look like thin poles leading to reels in the ceiling- he remembers the disks the Peacekeepers rode down on from the hovercraft to storm their camp. Not poles, then, but metallic ropes made for lowering the disks out of the craft. This is the exit. The soldiers wordlessly usher them to a wider circle- it looks to be made for two- and Ma’ crowds around him, holding him to her chest despite how he towers over her, and gripping onto the taut cable with her free hand. He lets her protect him, just for now. He pretends his eyes don’t droop in utter exhaustion. 

The Capitol woman- the one who spoke with Ma’ this time, steps forward. Her skirt is made from large, interlocking golden hoops, speaking of a splendor Dream doesn’t think he ever wants to possess. She does not smile, like the other woman seems to constantly be doing.

“Remember the deal. You play along. We let you live,” she says in a no-nonsense tone. 

“We understand,” Ma’ replies. She’s eager to get out of here and she doesn’t care where they drop the two of them, so long as she’s got Dream. A Peacekeeper sidles up next to them, and Ma’ bristles like a rabid dog- ready to strike.

“This soldier will bravely accompany you to your residence. We’re a bit far off from the gate- can’t have pesky little District Twelvers seeing you,” Dream’s interrogator says in her awful, chipper voice. He startles when air hisses and the platform jumps about an inch up, and then starts to descend. 

As soon as they drop past the floor of the ship, wind and leaves and the scent of the forest soothes Dream and he awes at the view of the wilds from so high up. It’s dark now; they must have been in the hovercraft the entire day. Despite the dark, he scans his surroundings with eyes honed to see far into the dark since he started hunting at age four. The familiar boulders and streams look so tiny from up here. He wonders if the people from the Capitol feel like this all the time, watching the people from the districts scramble around like ants to do their bidding. 

The circle touches the grass of a small clearing with a soft thump. They make no noise as they are reeled slowly back up to the 'craft. It floats there, just as imposing as when Dream first saw it. Ma’ lets go of him reluctantly, and they follow the quietly complaining Peacekeeper up and over the gate. The electric shock of the fence his mother warned him of must be turned off. Dream is the last one over the fence, and perched atop it, the sounds of men laughing and teens shouting and hollering and mothers calling their children for dinner drown out the Peacekeeper’s whining about his boring escort job. 

He feels his heartbeat throb in his ears. He’s never been on the other side of the fence. He feels as if the second his cold, bare feet touch the grass, he will cease to exist. Maybe a part of him will always stay back there with their campfire and animals and abandoned hammocks deep in the wilds. He knows it will stay there, forever, until moss and vines grow over everything and take their home back into the wilderness. They can never go back. It hits all at once. It’s over.

He comes back to himself as they walk into a small 3 room house. He doesn’t even remember jumping down from the fence. He looks around, eyes dry as if he had been sleeping. They stand in a room with couches and a box with odd antennae standing out of it, and he can see a kitchen and an open door that leads to a room with two beds in it. The Peacekeeper, who’s default mood seems to be generally pissed off, stomps over to the table in the kitchen and beckons them over with an impatient huff. Ma’ shuts the door behind them. It feels like a death sentence. On the table are several papers, with photos of both Dream and Ma’ on them, obviously doctored and edited, as well as lengthy paragraphs of legal jargon that Dream ignores. The Peacekeeper points at the pile of paperwork. “This is your identification. Since you can’t be  _ bothered _ to give us your name,  _ ma’am,”  _ the soldier pointedly gestures to Ma’, “or even a last name for you both, we picked something for you. Memorize them, these are your names now.” Then, to Dream’s absolute delight, the soldier reaches into a bag at his side and retrieves his hatchet and mask, and flinches violently when Dream lunges and snatches them from him. Ma’ laughs at him, and it only sounds a little empty as she busies herself with reading the falsified identifications. Mary and Dream Aarden. She doesn’t like it, but it’s better than the name she abandoned when she ran. Then, she spots the date at the lower right hand corner of the page. She stops. Rereads it. Her hands tremble against the page. She looks to the Peacekeeper, eyes wide. 

Brushing off his front like contact with Dream is beneath him, the Peacekeeper coughs and continues. “...Outhouse is out back.” 

“ _ Outhouse?”  _ Dream mouths to his mother, and she waves him off, grabbing the soldier’s attention with her worried expression. Before Dream can ask what’s wrong, Ma’ is speaking.

“What- what’s the date?” she sounds sick. Dream doesn’t understand, but the Peacekeeper flicks his wrist to read the small screen attached to his grey sleeve. “Ah, that time of year already? It’s November 30th.” Ma’s breath catches in her throat, eyebrows drawn tight together, a knot forming between them. The Peacekeeper makes to leave, and Ma’ doesn’t move. Dream locks the door behind the man, and draws all the blinds, despite how much it makes him feel caged. Then, he turns to his mother to draw her into a comforting hug, but she falls into it, and they sink to the floor. Dream sits in worried confusion, Ma’ in devastation. “What?” he asks, panicked, “What is it Ma’?  _ What?”.  _ Ma’ doesn’t lift her head from her hands, and she shakes and shakes and shakes. 

“The cards are valid- the I.D. cards; they, they’re going to put your name into the pot. The Reaping is in two months.” Dream’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he feels like the scared little boy laying eyes on the District 12 fence for the first time, that cold morning so long ago.

He doesn’t say anything, but his silence is answer enough. His breaths stutter. They don’t move from the floor for hours, and they do not move when the sun creeps through the trees the next morning and slip sneaking rays past the blinds across their crumpled forms. 

They do not move when curious and well meaning neighbors knock softly at their door, or when the district children try peeking into their windows to garner a look at the new folks in town. They mourn, together, in quiet misery that words cannot describe. 

The walls feel like they close in around him, and the clock on the wall, the antennae-d box on its low table, it all strikes him as alien; as foreign. For the first time in a long time, he is unsure of his next move. Dream always thinks ten steps ahead, but his world has tilted on its axis; he is in a different world now. He doesn’t belong here.

He thinks of an incriminating slip of paper with his name typed in fine black print, and shuts his eyes.

END OF ACT 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Aarden" as a surname means clay! It also means dirt, and I think the Capitol agents probably chose it as an insult.
> 
> Please comment and kudos! I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Act 2 Part 1: Unfavorable Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Today, we will pick two brave individuals to represent the... hardy, headstrong and steadfast District 12!” 
> 
> Dream’s hand itches for a blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one really took it out of me :,) please read and review! hope u enjoy!  
> Trigger Warnings for this chapter:  
> mention of an intense depressive episode  
> homophobia? queerphobia? some townspeople are rude to dream for wearing feminine clothing, but its only mentioned

Time passes for Dream oddly after he and Ma’ are “relocated” to District 12. He feels like a passenger in his own body, and is constantly restless. Twelve is small, but has wide dirt paths and roads and fields of yellowing grass and sparse trees- yet Dream still feels claustrophobic despite the long walks he takes every day. There are buildings _everywhere,_ small shacks, tiny homes, chicken coops and soup kitchens, and it takes him the first two weeks of settling in to not get lost in the maze on his way to the town square. 

The square is where he buys their food and swaths of fabric for their clothing. It’s incredibly strange to Dream- trading bills and coin for leather, meat, spools of thread. The people from the Capitol occasionally leave them small amounts of money to provide for their needs; he thinks it's an incentive to keep them from talking. It also ebbs at the temptation to just hop the fence and go hunting for what they want and need, when they can simply purchase it at the stalls and in the small shops in the square. It doesn’t make it any less annoying.

Maybe it’s from all the years alone with just Ma’ and the occasional trader for company, but every interaction grates on his nerves until he feels frayed and haggard, like the live-wire Dream’s seen workers trying to mend on the fence near the wilds. The irony of the cattle repairing their own cage is not missed by him. It takes everything in him not to scoff at them when he passes each day. 

The people in Twelve do not like him and Ma’. He imagines there has been much gossip about the duo that arrived overnight- house paid off and money in their pockets; a rarity for any District Twelver. Their antisocial attitude didn’t help, Ma’ quiet and tired, and Dream irritated and struggling to learn an entirely new culture and set of social rules. He was a quick learner, but learning that most people walked around unarmed grated at him the wrong way. He refused to leave the house without his hatchet. He did, however, tuck it into the back of his belt rather than the front, it was a bit less conspicuous that way. He imagined to the people of District 12, they made quite a pair. A scarred and angry woman and her silent, faceless sentry of a son always by her side.

The weather grew colder by the day, and Dream couldn’t stand the physical reminder of the quickly approaching date of the Reaping. Each night, Ma’ tried her best to explain the customs and traditions of the monumental day, to prepare him for the culture shock of it all. District 12 would be crawling with Peacekeepers and Capitol representatives and tourists all yearning for a glance at the poorest, lowest district. He would need to keep his head, as they now lived under the careful watch of their new Capitol handlers. Dream tried to reassure Ma’ that he wouldn’t fly off the handle the second he saw a grey uniform, but lately when he passed a Peacekeeper in town and a cold shiver went down his spine, he wasn’t so sure.

It’d only been a month now in their gilded cage, and Dream was already so very tired. It felt like a struggle to climb out of his alien-feeling bed. He checked the clock on the wall, as he couldn’t use daylight to gauge the time anymore (stupid  _ rooves _ ) and gave a deep sigh at the time. It wasn’t even four in the morning yet. He tried his best to go back to sleep, but his body wasn’t having it- he was too used to the soft swinging of his hammock. He resisted the urge to groan , as Ma’ was only a few feet away, sleeping soundly in her own bed. He hated to think about it, but she had taken back to district life like a duck to water. She had made a few friends already, a gruff older woman who worked in the illegal market hidden in an old factory (he thinks it might have been called the Hob), and a coal miner who smoked more than he breathed. He tries to be happy for her, but Dream still struggles with the fact that he has to wear shoes here. He feels like he’s failing at a test he was never prepared for. He feels like he’ll never be happy here. Maybe there is nothing for him anywhere, and he is doomed to wander Twelve quietly like a ghoul until he grows old and shriveled, a pariah until death. 

_ Enough _ . If he goes on like this, his thoughts will spiral and it will be like their second week in the district all over again. Dream had woken up on the eighth day of their stay in their new home, and Ma’ had not been able to convince him to eat, or drink, or bathe, or do much of anything really. He doesn’t remember much of it. It was as if he hadn’t really been there. If he couldn’t be in the wilds physically, his mind figured he might as well check out mentally. It’d frightened his mother to no end, watching him waste away, sat by the window in a blanket she had wrapped around him. He hadn’t taken his mask off the entire week. She had eventually been able to coax Dream out of his comatose state, and Dream had finally cried it out into her chest. He’s glad he’s got her- who knows how long he would have stayed like that. 

Dream pushes away thoughts of those dark days as he gathers his sheets into his arms quietly. He pads through the house, dark as the night outside, and doesn’t bother to slip shoes on as he slides out the front door. There’s a little tree in the front yard, and Dream looks up at it. It’ll do.

He’s not going to lie- the climb and setting up of his makeshift hammock is not elegant in the slightest, but he’s so tired and so incredibly done that he forgoes grace and slumps into the blankets for a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

When Dream wakes up, he opens his eyes to stare directly into curious dark brown ones. “Fuck!” He flails and kicks backwards out of his hammock, landing on the cool December frosted grass of the front yard with a soft ‘ _oof_ ’. An entertained chuckle sounds out and Dream scrambles to find his mask, throwing his scarf over his mouth as a substitute in the meantime.  _ Shit, it’s on the nightstand- _

“I’ve already seen your face y’know. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’ve got freckles.” 

Dream feels his ears heat up and hopes to any god out there that his face isn’t red as well. He rights himself snappily and fixes his sweater and long skirt. The odd boy looks at Dream’s bare feet in the frost for a second, but doesn’t spare a glance at the soft red pleated skirt that brushes his shins or the scars in his lip and left brow.

“What are you doing in my  _ yard? _ ” Dream asks, exasperated, because he doesn’t even know where to begin. This may be the weirdest morning in his entire life. Well, he thinks back to the sight of the hovercraft that day that feels so long ago, second weirdest for sure.

“What are  _ you  _ doing in my district?” The boy counters snappily, but it’s not accusatory or unkind. The question startles a wheezing laugh out of Dream- the first he’s had in a very long time. The boy laughs along with him in a sharp staccato and Dream decides right then and there that he likes the sound.

“I don’t know,” Dream answers, honestly. “I don’t know.”

The boy is dressed in a large blue sweatshirt and pants so stained they look black; hand-me-downs most likely. In Twelve, it was rare to get unused clothes. Boy’s got funny looking glasses on. Glasses boy sticks a hand out sharply, and Dream tries to minimize his flinch as much as he can. He knows this one. Right hand out, grasp. Shake his hand. This was one of the weirder customs he was still learning. The people in the districts were so… touchy. 

“I’m George,” the boy says, softly. His hand is warm and rough. 

“Dream,” he returns, and there’s the laugh again. “What?” he asks, self conscious for once.

“I know who you are. I don’t think there’s anyone in Twelve who doesn’t know who you are.”

Dream doesn’t know what to say to that, but he ponders on the stares he gets in town and wonders how much the townspeople know, but aren’t willing to say anything about lest they risk the Peacekeepers’, and thus the Capitol’s, ire. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and takes a closer look at George, and balks.

“You’re the fence boy!” George bursts into laughter again, “I’m the  _ what? _ ” 

Dream rushes to explain, but catches himself in time to keep up the carefully crafted lie.

“That day when me and my Ma’ came here, when I was with the Peacekeepers in the wilds. I saw you. You’re the fence boy,” he says, and George tilts his head. Dream wonders if he knows that Dream owes him his life. If George hadn’t seen him go down that day, it would have been so easy for the Capitol to simply slit his throat and leave his body for the wilderness. He doesn’t want to look at the other boy after thinking that thought, so he goes about letting down his hammock.

“Oh yeah! What the hell was that about, anyways? Never seen anyone cut off a Peacekeeper’s finger before and be alive the next day to tell  _ absolutely no one  _ about it,” George chuckles out, trying to help Dream take down the hammock but honestly making it worse. “Seriously,” he continues, mirthful, “I don’t think anyone’s gotten a peep out of you about what went down.”

Dream his already halfway up the tree already, and he definitely does not roll his eyes at George’s clumsy attempt to join him up there, no he does not. “It was a misunderstanding,” he says, as he has repeated it many times. “A  _ misunderstanding. _ ” George replies, incredulous. “They bashed your head in! I thought I saw someone die!” Now that’s a bit dramatic, Dream has faced much worse than a concussion and come out alive, and he’s got the scars to prove it, thanks very much.

Dream nods sagely as he folds the sheets, humming wisely and stroking his chin like Ma’ on nights where she’s had too much to drink and she suddenly becomes the wisest woman in the world. “These things  _ do _ happen sometimes, George.” 

They both end up falling out of the tree with their combined laughter. The commotion draws Ma’ out of the house, bundled in many, many blankets, and then she starts yelling at Dream for sleeping outside. They all rush into the house to escape the cold, tracking in dirt and frost and leaves, noses red with the early morning chill, and Ma’ turns to George. “Who’s this?” she asks, tired but not rudely, as she sets about brewing some coffee (which she admits to Dream she had sorely missed throughout their time in the wilds, though Dream still hasn’t acquired a taste for it). George gives her a big smile, and introduces himself as “Dream’s new best friend”. Dream’s so busy laughing he forgets to hate the idea of a friend besides Ma’.

And just like that, George is a part of the family. 

* * *

Dream and George are inseparable after that cold morning in the yard. Dream doesn’t explain what he was doing that day in the wilds, and George doesn’t talk about why he lives alone in a small house on the other side of town- no family to speak of. Dream thinks that’s probably why the other showed up in his yard. Loneliness makes you do strange things. The crushing boredom of being alone for too long can make you bold. They don’t push each other, and focus on other things instead. Dream teaches him how to throw a hatchet, and how to shoot. George is kind of awful at the axe-throwing, much to the chagrin of their neighbors (there are a few too many axe marks in their little fences for their taste) but he’s quite a good shot. The first time George shoots down a quail in the plains near the gate by the wilds, they cheer so loudly that they disturb half of District 12. Later, he shows George the long slash by his right lowermost rib where a moose had charged him and flung him with its antlers as a child. 

“Does it hurt?” George asks, hovering a concerned hand above the scar. 

“Always,” Dream answers, quietly, and lowers his shirt.

George shows Dream how to rig explosives. He works in the mines, evidenced by his soot covered clothing and coughing at the end of a work day. Dream tries very hard not to worry, but George is the only friend he’s ever had, and he worries anyways. George also shows him his little collection of stones and rocks; things he’s found down in the mine shafts. He can do this neat little trick and tell which stone is tougher just by looking at it. Dream has no idea how he does it. He marvels at the craftsmanship when George shows him the palm-length obsidian knife he made with nothing but a whetstone and his own two hands. They carve a notch into the metal at the top end of Dream’s hatchet and another towards the handle of George’s knife, since neither of them have got the resources or quite enough money for friendship bracelets. George lets Dream hold his tinted glasses; explains how he sees color differently.

Eventually, Dream stops wearing his mask around George. They spend every day that George isn’t working and Dream isn’t helping his Ma’ around the house together, not always productively but always happily. The days blur and Dream doesn’t notice his mother grow more melancholy as the weather steadily churns into an icy cold winter. He barely takes note of the fact he has to wear shoes now to avoid frostbite. She waves her son happily out the door to go spend time with his new friend every day, shuts the door, and sits underneath the kitchen table for hours, thinking. She feels as if that’s all she does nowadays. 

Dream wonders if part of the reason he gets along with George so well is because his mind needed a way out. Needed to forget about the date approaching. There’s not much time left before the Reaping now, and he and George freeze as they sit side by side in the snowy field and stargaze. There’s no need to talk about it. They both know. George hums a sad sounding tune and Dream can’t help but get curious. “Goggy?”

George snorts harshly at the nickname despite his shivering. “Yes, Dreamie?”

“How many times is your name in the mix?” The question is soft, and George knows there’s no pressure here. He answers all the same.

“Forty-eight.” Dream is quiet. Somehow, deep down he knew, when he saw the children and elderly in George’s neighborhood look more well-fed than any Twelver ought to be without outside intervention. The food had to be coming from somewhere. “You traded for tesserae,” Dream says, quiet with certainty. It’s not really a question, so George doesn’t really answer. Instead, he asks.

“And you?” George peers at him, genuinely curious. To him, Dream was an immigrant from District 11. He has no idea how the Reaping goes down over there. This would, by the Capitol’s fabricated story for him, be Dream’s third Reaping, just in a different district. 

“Just the four,” he says, and he isn’t lying. There was a day not long after their third week that the Capitol woman paid him a visit. He found out her name by the tag she forgot to take off, probably for the sake of fresh Peacekeepers who had yet to learn it. “Agent Gleam”. He honestly thought she was fucking with them at first with a ridiculous name like that, but Ma’ later explained that Capitol and even District 1 names were all meant to draw attention like that. Gleam clacked her stilettos into their little house like she owned the place that night, and Dream supposes she does. She pointedly did not take her gloves or hat off, and got right to business. “The Games are approaching. Since you have so sorely missed out on the  _ honor _ of entering your name for the Reaping, we at the Capitol have done you the kind favor of doing it for you. Your three slips will be counted in the pot this year, Mr. Aarden.” She smiled sweetly at him, but her eyes didn’t match it, and he slammed the door when she left. 

“Just the four,” George repeats, pensive. “That’s good. They’re not going to pick you with just four. That’s good.” George sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince Dream. At some point, they’d grasped each others’ icy cold hands. Dream gave George’s a squeeze. “There are people with more entries than you, right? They won’t pick you,” Dream’s voice is hushed. Scared. He can’t recall ever being scared for someone other than himself or Ma’ before. It’s a foreign feeling, but he can’t help it. 

“No, Dream, they won’t pick me.” George’s hand is warm and rough in his, like when they met those few weeks ago. If he tries hard enough, he believes it. It feels like they’ve spent lifetimes together. They both refuse to cry when they hug goodbye that night. It’s not worth it, they tell themselves. Neither of them are getting picked tomorrow.

Dream falls face-first into his bed when he gets home, and savors these last couple of hours.

* * *

The early hours of selection day pass in a haze. When Dream wakes, the house is dark- the dim rays of dawn sunshine still roughly an hour away. He didn’t get very much sleep at all. He pads into the sitting room and slides onto the sofa next to his mother, who looks smaller than he's ever seen her. She’s bundled in blankets and cloaks and skirts that remind him of their clothes in the wilds- all different colors and knits and textures. She stares silently at the television, a marvel to see in action to Dream but an old bittersweet acquaintance to her. She had told him when he was young how one worked and how the Capitol forced each home to have one. To bear witness. On the screen is the date, all white blocked digits on black backdrop, and a time.

"It's when we have to be in the square." His mother says, monotone. Dream nods, and gets to work. Ma’ knew she wasn’t going to be in the right state of mind today, so they had planned ahead. Dream presses a quick hug to her before standing.

He sets to the task of lighting the lamps in each room, one by one, until the cozy light chases the chill of the morning away. Their home is small, smaller than Dream has ever experienced a home to be. In the wilds, their home stretched for miles and miles, from the rushing clear water stream where they did their cleaning and washing all the way until the last 100 feet before the thinning of the trees, towards the fence. Dream is stuck with how much misses it, terribly. The box of matches is nearly crushed in his grip. He feels the pinched shut sensation in the back of his throat and blinks tears away, shaking himself out of his reverie. He steps back into the sitting room.

Here, he sits behind his mother and pulls her long, dark hair into a thick braid and piles it on top of her head with pins and ties. She hated it, but it was the fashion of women her age in District 12. Similarly due to her age, she was exempt from the drawing for the games and technically had been for three years now. Dream was the only one in danger here, and looking at his mother, he knew she was thinking the same thing.

He picks a long tweed kirtle and a belt to cinch it and her underdresses all together (as well as give her a place to hide her knife- neither of them would be going to this thing unarmed) while she raises herself up, aching bones and all to find something for him to wear. They'd always helped each other get ready in the morning. They were all they’d had, and it felt nice to know his mother would be warm and bundled in the things he chose for her.

Amidst her valiant endeavor to begin breakfast, Ma’ tosses articles of clothing at him to pick from. They have a laugh together when he emerges into the kitchen wearing what he always wears, a long sleeved green hooded tunic that falls to his mid-thigh and form fitting brown pants with as many pockets as he could manage to sew onto them. He tucked his hatchet into his belt like always. Maybe if he imagined it was a normal day, his hands would stop shaking. He runs them over the tunic’s edges on his thighs. Though it wasn’t a dress like he sometimes liked to wear back in the wilds, the tunic was close enough to make him feel confident and happy in his skin. The people here were so odd, excluding George, and often gave him looks for wearing something so close to a skirt. He never understood the issue, and took great joy in the swish of the embroidered olive fabric over his legs.

They didn't speak as they ate; acorn bread and dandelion tea held in their laps as they sat on the floor. The table always felt too foreign to him. Too district-like. Dream winced as his mother pulled his hair into a low, loose braid. She insisted, though he liked to keep it loose and flowing. It was to keep the strands out of his mask, she reasoned with him. 

As Mother fusses over how many scarves to put on him and whether or not she’ll win the argument on making him wear gloves, the television flashes an incriminating red. They have a half hour. They both go still in the entryway of their house. Dream wonders if George is already in the square.

He meets his mother’s suddenly somber gaze, as if she had let herself forget where they were, what day it was, the danger and risk, and grabs her hand. Dream dons his mask and they set off towards the square before they both lose their nerve. 

* * *

Dream lines up with his age group, around the middle of the crowd, with the boys on the left. He has no idea why the entire population needs to be separated by genders, but he never understands anything the Capitol makes them do. If he strains hard enough, he can see George several spaces to his right. Dream gives a cheeky little wave, and George returns it. They both grin, though George can’t see it through the bone of his mask. This is the worst of days, but at least they’ve got each other. At least his mother is safe. Things could be worse. They both probably have a low chance of being pulled anyways.

The crowd is rather loud, young girls in the first row comparing their tight braids, babbling babies on their mothers’ hips and quietly conversing adults, rowdy boys roughhousing jovially. Anything to avoid the reality of it all, Dream supposes. It all comes to an unsettling quiet, very suddenly. He’s tall, but he still has to stretch to see over everyone and up towards the stage. 

Out walks Agent Gleam, covered in jewels of all different kinds, all of immense value and all beautiful. The light shimmers off of her in eye-catching ways, and he notes that her hair is yellow now. He watches her click daintily to the center of the stage and just about bites his tongue bloody in anger. Of  _ course _ it’s her. His hands form fists by his sides and feels lucky to have his mask. His thunderous expression alone would out him as an oddity in the crowd.

Gleam gives a little “ahem” into the microphone, and everyone collectively winces at the feedback. The glittering woman doesn’t pause, because the Capitol never has.

“Welcome, all!” Gleam’s eyes look dark and beady from here, like a rat about to feast. “Welcome to the 74th annual Hunger Games!” If not for the absolutely ridiculous amount of Peacekeepers around, it would be so easy to kill her. The gems of her dress would weigh her down. It would be child’s play. “Today, we will pick two brave individuals to represent the... hardy, headstrong and steadfast District 12!” Dream’s hand itches for a blade. He resists, and watches Gleam walk gracefully make her way to the large glass bowl full of paper slips. She dips her hand in and makes a game of it, swirling the slips around and fluttering her fingers. It feels as if the entire district is holding its breath. Gleam is toying with them, like a wild fox plays with a group of hatchlings after it’s already killed the hen. 

The Capitol woman’s hand emerges with a single, tiny white piece of paper. The microphone picks up every crinkle of it as she folds it open like there’s a treat inside, grinning. Dream feels his heart fly up into his throat. Gleam clears her throat, for show.

“George Picksmith!”

Like a series of waves, people turn to look at George where he stands, jaw clamped and lips set in a thin line. His eyes are not wide in surprise, but staring straight ahead in resignation. Dream feels all the blood leave his face as he stares with the rest of the district in what can only be shock. Mourning. His knees wobble. George steps through the crowd that parts like butter under a knife, and climbs the stairs where Gleam stands, smiling like a cat. Wide green eyes follow him the entire way. Gleam moves to the next slip, uncaring of the life she’s practically ended by proxy. Again, the game with the papers, the deafening unfolding, but Dream hears none of it. George.  _ George.  _ He can’t breathe.

“I voluntee-!” Gleam produces the unfolded slip with a dramatically raised hand and cruel, glinting eyes as she cuts Dream off.

“And Dream Aarden!” 

George is far from him, where he is on that stage, but Dream is sure he sees his eyes widen. He will never forget the way his mother screams in devastation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks @Cats_Food_Fanfics_Anime_Manga_Cheese here on ao3 for picking out george's surname! we're in a discord together for @Numanum 's mcmh fanfic The Run and Go! its amazing, go read it. frfr 
> 
> anywho, hope you enjoyed! leave a comment! ill try to get on a regular update schedule, i promise


	6. Act 2 Part 2, Intermission: In A District Far Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s his first year; he’s only got his name in once. Tubbo never understood bad omens anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quite a short chapter here! but it's only the intermission, so don't worry! I've decided on an update schedule! Ill be dropping a new chapter for you guys every monday! see you all for the next chap! 
> 
> Trigger Warnings for this chapter:  
> transphobia  
> emotional neglect to a child

Tubbo goes through his life not understanding many, many things. He learns from a young age that he will never understand why people insist he wear the admittedly pretty dresses his mother buys for him or tell him to stop cutting his hair so short when he gets a hold of the sharp fish gutting knife in the kitchen. He doesn’t particularly care to understand, and spends most of his time alone. People tell his parents that he lives in his own little world.

He is fifteen now, and his dark hair is shorn close to his head. He defends his choice to his parents by saying it is to ward off the heat typical to their district. It is a lie, and they don’t believe him. They don’t do anything to stop him either. Tubbo thinks they might just not care enough either way to worry about how their neighbors and friends perceive him. 

Everything always seems too complex to Tubbo, all of the time. Adults like to make things complicated, so that they feel smart for understanding the system they’ve created, he supposes. This isn’t to say he’s stupid, no matter how many times the other children in school claim it. He understands  _ some _ things  _ very _ well.

Like sewing; as evidenced by the combination of mesh and stretchy fabric in the binding for his chest, now that he’s fifteen and has to worry about these things. Or weaving- his nets and lines are the best in his town, though everyone here refuses to use anything he’s made. He’s good with bees, too. Tubbo has always loved them, and they seem to return the favor. Sometimes he pretends that they’re his friends; they share secrets together in the farthest stretches of ocean his district allows people to roam, in a small boat surrounded by nothing but clear blue water and overshadowed by rays of lukewarm December sun. 

The bees were an odd choice in pets for a District 4 boy, but not the oddest thing Tubbo has done, according to the people in his docktown. There is the oddity that he wears dark pants rolled up to the knees and fishes all day instead of sitting with the girls his age and learning to weave intricate nets for both fishing and fashion, or at least train for the annual event of the Games. District 4 produces Careers like One and Two do, but not nearly as many. Tubbo doesn’t understand the craze to represent their district in the killing game, and doesn’t care to. It wouldn’t be the first thing he didn’t understand, Tubbo reasons as he pulls the sleeves of his shirt down a bit. It’s getting cold this time of year. He thinks about finding himself some long pants for when the temperature dips below what’s comfortable, and feels a tug at his fishing net. The bees bob and flutter around his ears and he waves them away gently to begin freeing his net from the bit of coral it’s caught on.

When he finally frees it, and lugs the thing onto his small vessel, he’s surprised to see that all the fish caught in it are already dead- rotting away. The smell is acrid and Tubbo rubs the muck of the net off onto his pant legs.

Deciding to just throw the whole net back and deal with it later, he waves away the curious bees nestling into his shaved hair and buzzing around his shoulders, rows back to shore, and doesn’t even think about the Reaping. It’s his first year; he’s only got his name in once. Tubbo never understood bad omens anyways. 

* * *

When he pads over the sun-worn boards of the main walkway in town, it is quiet. There aren’t very many Peacekeepers here this year, and he takes advantage of it, hoping no one notices his tardiness. He slides into line with the boys his age, but they shove him roughly to the girls’ side. 

“ _ Rude _ ,” he mutters quietly when the girls near him step back snottily, noses upturned, as if his ‘oddness’ is contagious. He’s so caught up in trying to sink into himself in the middle of the age fifteen line and wishing he had worn shoes this morning to fish (his feet are  _ cold) _ that he nearly misses the Capitol representative step on stage. It’s a tall man this year, dressed resplendently in precious metals of all shades and luminosity. Tubbo wonders how the man doesn’t cook to death in that outfit- it may be chilly but the sun in District 4 is always bright enough to burn, all year ‘round. He himself can feel the sun beat harshly down on the back of his neck and begin to leave redness there. The pain gives him something to focus on, at least. The Reaping is always so  _ boring. _ No matter who is picked, someone with delusions of honor and victory volunteers. There is no real danger here, and everyone knows it.

After that, he stops listening and occupies himself with the little honey bee who shuffles happily in between each of his fingers. The Capitol man drones on and on about valor and bravery, and people shush Tubbo sharply when he giggles to his little bug. He doesn’t even notice anything’s amiss, watching the bright sun flash through the honeybee’s wings until he glances up and sees that everyone is staring at him. 

“ _ Young lady _ ,” The Capitol representative repeats in annoyance, seeming to lose his patience. “Young lady, please come up to the stage.”

The bee flies away, upwards towards the sun. Tubbo clenches his fingers into his palms and feels very alone and very small. No one volunteers in his stead, a rarity for District 4. Somewhere, many districts away, a mother screams in anguish as the reaper rips her son from her, but it is not his district, and it is not his mother. He hears nothing from his parents in the back of the rows. 

Tubbo walks up to the stage feeling out of his own body, and stands on weak knees to the right- still on the girls’ side in a way that makes his stomach churn and his hands sweaty, and tries to understand. 

* * *

He’s still trying to understand as he sits in his plush seat on the Capitol’s bullet train. It is just as ridiculously beautiful and golden and abundant as everything else Capitol. It only strikes him as wasteful, and he doesn’t touch any of the food on the long dining table to his left. 

His mother and father do not come to say goodbye to him. No one does, except for the other tribute that had been called, who is seated across from him in equal silence, quietly sipping a drink they nick from the table as soon as the two are carted off to the train. Tubbo hadn’t known how to react when no one showed up to see him off to his death, so when the fellow tribute asked if he was alright, he had launched into their chest and shook and shook and shook. They didn’t look surprised, and had held him tight. Whispered that it was going to be alright. Never had Tubbo been so glad to be lied to.

He hadn’t cried, for he wasn’t truly in mourning. He has known for a very long time that he is unloved, unwanted. He is alone on this slow journey, and he will be alone in his death in the arena- except, come to think of it, no one had shown up to say their goodbyes to his fellow tribute either; it had just been the two of them-

“I’m sorry, what was your name?” Tubbo asks, hollow and empty but still curious.

“My name,” they begin, patient and serene, “Is Eret." They give him an older-sibling smile and a playful quirk of the brow that makes Tubbo almost feel like what life he’s got left is still worth living. The older tribute is like Tubbo, he knows it, in the intrinsic way that people like the two of them always know one another.

Eret wears a long sleeved peach colored shirt with fish netting at the elbows- a typical feminine fashion piece for their district- and a long, flowing pink skirt with strawberries embroidered onto it. Tubbo rather likes it, and Eret swishes the skirt around a bit with their legs to amuse him or make him laugh or maybe just to take his mind off the fact that they’re probably both going to be dead within a month. Eret must be from another docktown, because Tubbo’s never seen them before. He would remember someone like them, he’s sure. They wear dark glasses, but that’s not atypical with how brightly the sun shines in Four.

The train car they sit in together is quiet save for the humming of ambient noise, and Tubbo is quickly distracted by the scenery flashing by too quickly to really appreciate it. Four isn’t very far from the Capitol at all- they’ll be there within three hours, at most. Eret isn’t annoyed by Tubbo’s fleeting attention like most people in his town, and instead crosses their legs and leans back contentedly to join him in his windowgazing. It’s a little while until they speak again, as if letting Tubbo acclimate to the new surroundings first. They lean forward, as if telling a secret. Tubbo leans forward too, and a crooked grin takes over Eret’s face. 

“Hey, Tubbo,” they whisper theatrically.

“Yeah?” Tubbo whispers back, willing to play along and have a little fun before he meets his end in the arena. He likes Eret, and is grateful that he’s been paired with someone nice, at least.

“You don’t want to go to the arena, do you Tubbo?” They continue, and Tubbo shakes his head dumbly. 

“No, can’t say I’m too jazzed about that. I don’t think very many people _want_ to go to the arena. That is, except, probably Careers, because-” Eret cuts him off, but not rudely. Tubbo knows he can ramble on at times and wouldn’t blame them if they were rude about it.

“Well my friend, what would you say if I told you I had a plan?” Eret leans back in their seat looking satisfied and regal, and Tubbo tilts his head. “You’ve sure got my attention.”

Eret grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed! drop a comment, they fuel me


	7. Act 2 Part 3: Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream understands now, after breathing his way through the panic, that he’s been set up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls take this very short very late chapter and also my apologies  
> i am very tired and i am trying *<:o)  
> no trigger warnings for this chap, lemme kno if you think i should add some here!

Dream understands now, after breathing his way through the panic, that he’s been set up. Gleam has picked him on purpose to kill him off in the only way she is able to do so. He wonders if George getting selected is his fault. The Peacekeepers have watched Dream and his mother. He should have known that they’d watch George too. He should have been more careful. He wishes, deeply, to go back to that day in the yard and tell George to go away, to escape with his life. They’re both going to die in that arena, and everyone knows it.

They don’t let him say goodbye to his mother. He and George sit quietly in the room where the families of tributes are  _ supposed  _ to be able to say their final farewells to their children, parents, siblings. Gleam didn’t allow it. He can feel the bruise forming on his wrist where Ma’ has pushed her way to him in the crowd, held him tight, and had to be dragged away kicking and screaming by several Peacekeepers. There hadn’t been time to say anything. He will never know what she would have said, had she had the time, and his first instinct is to worry. Ma’ and Dream lived for 19 years together secluded in the woods, with only one another’s company, and she was going to be left all alone in a District unfamiliar to her. Who would convince her to eat and bathe on her bad days? Who would make sure she put on a second scarf to chase the chill when she left for errands in the morning? Ma’ doesn’t have anyone left. 

That’s not true. She’s got friends now, he reasons to himself. The people here will care for her, after he is gone. Her world has grown so much since they were found in the wilds. She has people, she has connections. Ma’ will be okay. She’s going to have to be. He doesn’t shake anymore, leaned against George’s side. They both stopped shaking a while ago. The shock wears off, and it leaves resignation. They’re stuck.

George had just about lost his mind when he heard that Gleam would be keeping Ma’ from seeing Dream. “That’s against the  _ rules _ !” He’d cried, outraged at Agent Gleam’s sickly saccharine smile. The woman hadn’t deigned to respond to him with anything other than, “My young boy, it is only a security measure! You must understand- this is beyond my control, dear.” The brunette had opened his mouth to start screaming at the woman again, but by then Dream had salty tears dried and stuck to his face, and he placed an exhausted, quiet hand on George’s shoulder. George had gone silent, glaring daggers into Gleam’s back when she turned to  _ click click click _ out of the room, out the door Dream knew lead to the train. Dream doesn’t want to think about that yet. He thunks his head onto the wall behind him. Deep breaths. Live in the present. They’ve got time. They’ve got time.

The room they’re in screams  _ ‘Capitol’ _ with its lime paisley wallpaper and odd furnishings of red velvet and redder mahogany. Located in a back hallway in the courthouse, it’s empty, besides the extravagant decor, the two of them, and a lone Peacekeeper, to keep watch. There are no windows, probably to avoid curious eyes. There’s no one left in the Picksmith family to send George off, and Dream’s only ever had Ma’. The half hour they have to spend in this room is simply for show- or maybe just tradition. The room is large to accommodate equally large District Twelve families, but it only feels suffocating like every room is to Dream. The wall feels like it’s closing in on him from where his back presses against it. He leans forward a bit to shrug off the sensation; he’d never gotten used to living indoors. It’s all  _ too much.  _ He folds his hands into his lap, leans forward, and tries not to panic. He distantly feels George’s hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. Minutes go by. It feels like an eternity. There is no clock in this room, and he can’t see the sun. He doesn’t know how much time they have left. He wishes Ma’ were here.

When he finally looks up from his hands, where they sit loosely over his crossed legs, George is sat against the wall to his right in a near mirror of Dream’s position. There are chairs here; sofas too, but none of them want to touch the sparkling clean Capitol furniture that sits in this so obviously Capitol room, used once a year by people who are long gone. The last victor from District 12 passed away years ago, so they’re on their own. There is no one to guide them through this, and soon,  _ very _ soon now, whether they go quietly or not, he and George will be put on the train. As if thinking the same thought, George lifts head, gaining Dream’s attention. “Dreamie,” he begins, but his words are choked and stilted and the masked boy understands completely. Turning to face his friend fully, Dream wraps his arms around George, and sinks into him for a hug. The Peacekeeper scoffs at them, two men comforting one another like that, but the two ignore him. There, against Dream’s chest, and feeling the tickle of the taller boy’s skirt against his own pant leg, George cries for the first time since his name was called. It is the quiet, mourning cry of someone who’s just realized he is never going back home again. 

There’s got to be mere minutes left now. The dread sets into Dream’s stomach, and he tightens his arms around his best friend, the only person he’s got left. He doesn’t want to go, but-

“We don’t have much time.” George’s voice only catches on the last words, and Dream starts to understand how difficult this is going to be. There can only be one victor. He shakes that thought from his head before it can spiral. They’ll deal with that when they get there. Together. “What are you going to bring?” Dream asks, softly. Each tribute is allowed their token, so long as it isn’t advantageous in the arena. George taps his goggles. Dream nods, and taps his mask. They both give a sad sort of laugh. If nothing else, they’ve got each other.

The guard draws closer to them, and they help each other stand before the Peacekeeper gets any ideas to ‘escort’ them. The grey-clad figure shoves them to the door, and throws it open, gesturing. “C’mon then,” the man barks. It’s bright out there. Dream looks back towards the ugly room and the half hour spent there, and longs for it. Longs for it nearly as strongly as he hated it when he was locked in there. There’s no time for longing, he realizes as George’s breath quickens and goes still. Dream will be brave for the both of them, even as he feels tears prick his eyes and his throat seems to close.

George is panicked and scared at his side, thinking three thousand steps ahead like he always does. Dream nods to himself. “Okay,” he says, sucking in a breath and sighing out, hard. No time for tears right now. He won’t go down without a little bit of defiance, and he isn’t letting George either. He makes sure his mask is on right and with a pointed shove at the Peacekeeper, he grabs the sleeve of George’s navy blue threadbare sweater. “Okay,” he says again, more for himself than anyone else, and stomps forward, pushing past the door. He walks briskly and steps onto the train, not giving himself time to regret. George is tugged compliantly along behind him. He feels George look back as the building’s door slams shut behind them, but Dream can’t bring himself to. He’s too frightened that he’ll try and run back. The wind whips Dream’s hair out of the braid it’s in, and the tangles and strands flutter with the breeze. It feels like a goodbye. The train doors slide shut automatically, and a sense of finality follows the two the entire shocked walk to their seats. 

They’ve got a long ride ahead of them, Dream thinks as he rubs his chilled hands over his skirt-covered thighs. George has slumped into the love seat next to him, and they join hands numbly. Dream can feel his eyelids grow heavy. He’s exhausted enough to close them. George will keep an eye out, he’s sure. He can’t help but succumb to the soft sleep pulling him under. He can allow himself this rest, just for today.  _ Tomorrow though _ , Dream thinks resolutely. 

Tomorrow they start planning.


	8. Act 2 Part 4: Solitary Confinement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy doesn’t need them anyways. Tommy has never needed anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> emotional neglect of a child  
> mentions of bullying  
> tommy generally having a very bad day

Tommy has never been very well liked. It's total bullshit, obviously, because Tommy is amazing and fantastic and  _ lots _ of fun to be around, no matter what anyone tells him. Especially not the boys at school, or in training, who take every opportunity to point out how Tommy is smaller than them, too loud, too excited, too much. Bullshit. Obviously. Tommy doesn’t need them anyways. Tommy has never needed anyone.

He is at the top of his training class, and is very good with a sword and a bow. He is proud, and everyday Tommy follows his routine. He comes home from classes, tells his mother about what he learned, how well he is doing, how incredibly  _ cool _ her son is and how  _ proud _ she should be. He pointedly does not mention how some kids in the age group above him locked him in the weapons shed for three hours.

His mother lies on the sitting room chaise in the early evening light shining through the full length stained glass windows and sips her constantly drunkenly spilled chardonnay, as usual. She ignores him, as usual. Sometimes, when he is especially quiet and hides at the very top of the staircase, peeking between the bars of the bannister- he can catch her playing the piano situated at the window. Those are his favorite times, when he can rest his head against the cool granite of the staircase and cease to think for a little while. Tommy wonders why his mother only plays sad songs. 

His father is a board member of an influential pottery company with close ties to the Capitol. Tommy knows this through reading the overpraising articles in the Capitol sanctioned newspaper everyday. He can count on two hands the amount of times he has spoken to the man. Don’t get Tommy wrong- he doesn’t dislike his father. He would have to know him in order to do that. 

Tommy doesn't feel any particular way about him, and he's sure the feeling is mutual. It doesn't bother him, obviously, because Tommy is  _ strong _ and independent and brave. Obviously. He can handle things on his own. He always has. Today is no different, he thinks to himself as he stares down his reflection in the bathroom. 

He looks like shit. He’s tired, as evidenced by the purple under his eyes. Tommy heaves a frustrated sigh and pushes his hair back out of his face. Sets about getting dressed. The house is quiet, his parents must have left without him. Fine. That’s fine. Tommy can handle it.

He doesn't need anyone to help him get ready the morning of the Reaping, grown man that he is. He's fifteen now, and he will be expected to show- he doesn't need his  _ mommy _ to bring him. 

He rushes through getting ready, the house staff having left out his suit the night before. He doesn't need their help  _ either _ , thank you very much. He could have gotten dressed on his  _ own.  _ He pretends not to struggle with his laces for a few minutes and finally frustrates himself into just tucking the laces into the dress shoes themselves. He ditches the included tie on his way to the dining room- no way he’s wearing that.

Breakfast is ready for him on the table and he scarfs it down in the suffocating silence of the empty house before deciding to take his leave. Tommy is very grown up and very mature so he absolutely does  _ not _ tuck his luckiest music disc into his breast pocket. It doesn't calm his nerves at all, not even a little.

Tommy checks three times to make sure no one sees him, and then slides a thank you note for breakfast and his clothes under the head maid's door on his way out to his valet, parked as usual by the front steps. He pretends he isn’t nauseous the entire way- counts his breaths and stays very still. When he gets to the main square, he isn’t sure what’s worse- the claustrophobic car or the crowded area that awaits him. It's loud, colorful, and people shout over one another, excited to volunteer.

Volunteers are the norm in the top couple of districts. The actual Reaping has nothing to do with who's actually going to represent District 1 in the arena. There are so many volunteers that usually, an entire new pot of names has to be made- so everyone gets a fair chance of getting picked. It's an enormous honor to play in the Games, so Tommy understands that he will not be chosen today. There's never been a tribute his age from One- he's simply too young, and someone a few years older will volunteer on the off chance his name gets called. The same goes for when someone in their thirties is chosen- the real golden age is 18 to 25. Tommy thinks it’s incredibly fucking boring to see the same two young adults, all carbon copies of one another and derived of all personality traits besides their district go off to the arena, but what does Tommy know? Apparently not very much, according to the boys and girls in the age group just above his. He can see them now, lining up behind him, pointing and laughing. Probably keyed up and overconfident that they can volunteer this year. Bunch of  _ dickheads _ \- Tommy can feel rage pooling in his throat and heat rising to his face. He clenches his hands tight, then relaxes them. Looks away. If he starts a fight here, there will be hell to pay when he gets home. Relax. Breathe through it. 

Tommy breathes, and is indifferent as he lines up with the boys from his training class, and he is even  _ more _ indifferent as the speech goes on. The Capitol agent sent this year is a tall woman in a dress that looks like moving galaxies and nebulae. It's distracting in a way that makes him angry- but he’s always kind of angry, so Tommy almost misses when his name is called. He definitely hears it the second time, though. He waits patiently. Silence stretches on. He sees a smug man on stage already, clearly pleased to have won the volunteer draw. He's a trainer from one of Tommy's classes- he's never liked Tommy. He's still got bruises from last week's sparring session where he got pinned for way longer than is technically allowed. Tommy's stomach drops. Surely not. Surely. Someone will volunteer. He's only fifteen. Someone’s supposed to volunteer. 

He feels stares at his back. Hears people from the older class start to giggle. The Capitol representative calls his name once more, and Peacekeepers move to guide him to the stage. 

No one volunteers, and when it’s time to board the train, his parents don’t see him off. 


	9. Act 2 Part 5: The Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, fuck you too,” he mutters sleepily, sitting up. George just laughs and props himself up as well. Looks like neither of them are going to sleep for a while. Maybe there's one other constant of the world: George always knows what to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a good old filler chapter! time to catch up with the boys. figured id give them some bonding time before we begin to close act 2!
> 
> trigger warnings:  
> vomit mention  
> Gleam being a douche bag
> 
> Oh also heres a short playlist of suggested listening i add to occasionally https://m.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLb4P4kFLfxNsqbqhen-49ftxjwvsxZf8o

The ride to the Capitol is a dreadfully long one. No amount of splendor, food, shining opulence or gaudy decor can camouflage the truth. This is only the calm before the storm- a gilded cage to keep him and George well enough for now to put on a good show of dying later. This is a death sentence. It’s a death sentence, and every moment he feels as if he’s going to burst into tears or maim a Peacekeeper (or both)- but it’s a  _ boring  _ death sentence.

Unfortunately for Dream, it seems it’s also a nauseating death sentence. The first week sees Dream spending most of his time heaving the contents of his stomach over a toilet. He’s never been on a train before. The constant subtle shaking of the cars and the flashing of scenery grate on his frayed nerves. He’s  _ just  _ settled into Twelve. Enough, at least, that he’s grown to enjoy and need George’s constant presence and not (regularly)  _ snap  _ at people who come to close to him in the marketplace. He’s almost glad to be free of the ‘feral-boy’ stigma he’s seem to have built around himself in District 12. George was his only companion there. He is his only companion now, too. 

The second week is spent fending off a well-meaning George trying to get Dream to sleep a bit, or eat the odd Capitol food that’s miraculously provided to them each morning. Dream steadfastly refuses for a few days. He may not have been coherent enough to fend George off a week ago, but he is now, and  _ god dammit  _ he will not sit at that table and eat that food with Gleam sitting with her nose turned up across from them. He will  _ not.  _ George tries his best- flashes his best puppy-dog eyes and tries to feed Dream little bits of bread and milk when he’s not expecting it- but Dream won’t budge. At least, he doesn’t until one morning when he and George emerge from their room (there were two, but they were reluctant to part) Dream stops suddenly, and collapses in a heap on the plush carpeted floor, nearly scaring George out of his skin.

When he wakes, George is teary-eyed and lays a hard punch into Dream’s thigh over the blankets where he lays. That hurts, but seeing Gogy that upset hurts more. So, Dream eats. He sleeps the whole day, and a bit into the next one too. Gleam doesn’t seem to have even noticed Dream’s stunt when he joins her and George at the dinner table that night. It’s quiet- just the sounds of eating and silverware clinking against plates and bowls, save for Dream who has always eaten with his hands and will not stop now, hovering Capitol agent be damned. George had gotten used to his table manners long ago anyways. At least now, he feels well enough to be able to eat without spewing the rich Capitol-odd food all over the cashmere carpet. He was probably a bit too delighted in Gleam’s horrified expression when he did that on the first night. He’s licking the juice from the grilled chicken off his fingers when Gleam sets down her silverware primly, leveling a grimace of disgust at Dream’s messy hands. 

“We need to work on your etiquette. Both of you. We’ll be arriving in our splendid Capitol city within a fortnight, and I can’t have you..”, she gestures vaguely to, well, all of the two boys who sit across from her, “... _ embarrassing _ me… in front of such important company.”

Dream nods along quietly as she speaks, glancing at George every so often to gauge his reaction. He looks exasperated, and bored out of his mind. Dream can relate. He finishes chewing, loudly, just to see the annoyed expression on Gleam’s face before moving his mask back over his mouth. “How ‘bout you go fuck yourself?” 

“ _ Dream!”  _ comes George’s horrified laughter, and Dream grins as well when he see’s the agents face heat with unbridled rage. Gleam stands with a flourish and slams her hands down on the table. “You will  _ not  _ spoil this for me! The most  _ upstanding _ and essential citizens will be attending the rankings and you won’t-” 

George has begun eating again, looking for all appearances as if he hasn’t even heard the woman. Dream is glad he can hide his smirk behind his mask, even if a few snorts escape. Gleam really makes it  _ too  _ easy. Suddenly, a decanter of what looks like pomegranate juice clatters over and splashes over Gleam’s shocked form. 

Dream’s jaw drops, and he looks to George, who’s obviously purposeful hand is still extended in a false reach. “Oh, oops,” George begins, and now Dream’s really starting to lose it. “I must not have been paying attention. Silly me.” The bespectacled man leans back in his seat. “Go on then. I wasn’t listening earlier.” Dream whips his head to Gleam. 

She shakes, enraged. Then, she explodes, grasping at the stained satin of her flowing dress. “You are going to  _ die  _ in that arena!” she shrieks. “You are beneath me! Both of you! District Twelve  _ scum-  _ you dare?” All the mirth in the room is gone now, both boys reminded of the fate awaiting them in the Capitol. Gleam can’t even keep up with herself, the way she’s carrying on. The screaming and shouting don’t seem to bother George, as he looks on with what can only be described as self-satisfaction. 

The agent hurls insults and slurs at them, and Dream can’t help but lower his chin to his chest in anger. He doesn’t like Gleam. She’s just like the Peacekeepers. She’s a glutton for control, for the fear and respect of others. She reminds him of the dark haired Peacekeeper from that summer afternoon. Except, this time, his captor is weak. Weaker than he is, for sure. His hand creeps towards his abandoned steak knife. It lays within reach on a beautifully embroidered cloth napkin. It would be so  _ easy _ \- George’s hand covers his own, and Dream is human once more. The rage leaves him, and he is abruptly very tired. George tugs him up by his hand they leave, Gleam’s hysterical screaming following them until the quiet snap of their door shuts out the noise. 

“Why’ve we gotta be on this thing for a whole  _ month?” _ Dream spits as he kicks softly at their door. He takes a little bit of glee knowing that every other tribute, even the District One'rs would be on this incredibly dull ride for just as long as he and George were going to be. The trip was a month long for everyone. Fairness, he supposes. Though, nothing about their situation really seems fair.

George doesn’t really reply, but gives little hums that he’s still listening as he goes about his routine to get ready for bed. Dream rolls his eyes at George’s weird District habits. He takes his mask off and hangs it by the door. “Look how easy that was Gogy, ready to sleep.” George takes one look at Dream’s shit-eating grin and poncho that he seems to  _ live  _ in and bare feet (as they always were- unless it was snowing out, one wouldn’t catch him wearing them) and scoffs. “Not my fault you’re a weirdo who never changes, Dreamie.” Dream dignifies that with a middle finger and falls face-first into bed. George is quick to follow, now in his sleep clothes. Dream still doesn’t grasp the idea of a whole other outfit just to sleep in. Districts are weird- the one constant of the world. 

He wonders how Ma’ is doing. He hopes she’s warm. Hopes she’s been eating. It’s been so cold these last few days in Twelve. A well placed flick to the forehead snaps Dream out of his downward spiral. "Stop brooding, I can hear you thinking from over here." 

“Yeah, fuck you too,” he mutters sleepily, sitting up. George just laughs and props himself up as well. Looks like neither of them are going to sleep for a while. Maybe there's one other constant of the world: George always knows what to say.

In the bedside table Dream rifles through sits a small stash of food and treats. George opens his hands greedily and Dream snickers as he just flicks a few at his head instead. George just squawks indignantly at him. He dumps the rest between them.

He’s been stealing bits from every meal and hiding them in his drawers or behind the mirror in the bathroom. You never know when the food won’t be there. Better to be safe. George calls it “food hoarding” and looks at him sadly each time he comes across one of Dream’s scores. Dream calls it thinking ahead. Dream calls it staying alive. Food isn’t always a certainty in the wilds- especially in the winter. He never wants to be hungry like that again. So- he plans ahead. And it leads to, okay,  _ slightly _ embarrassing little piles of food that George inevitably finds because he snoops around everything like it belongs to him. Dream finds he doesn’t mind so much, so long as it’s George. He can stand to share. Anyways, George seems to be thankful for his little hoard now, as neither of them finished dinner. 

They share now, and sit cross legged on the bed, knees touching as they whisper lowly as to not wake any of the Peacekeepers on board- or God forbid- Gleam, who they hope is asleep now two rooms over. They both know they probably aren’t going to make it. They try not to think about it. They try to plan ahead. Light filters into the room through the slim window towards the ceiling. Dream can spot lights that flash every so often- brightening the dim room. They only have days now. Only days. 

“I think I have it now.” Dream says, hushed in between the silence that fills when a conversation lulls. “What are you  _ talking  _ about? Sleep, you big insomniac.” George is half asleep against his side, glasses folded on the table. “Our grand plan, dummy.” Dream whispers, moving some of George’s hair away from his mouth before he can swallow it and wake himself up fully with his own hacking. Again. George only cracks his eyes open. “Well? Whatcha’ got?” 

Dream hums. “We’re going to die in there.” George goes quiet, looking away. Dream knows he knows. Doesn’t make it any less depressing. “But they want a show before we do, right?” Dream continues, growing giddy. George looks at him exactly how he does when he has to stop Dream from climbing a particularly high tree. “What are you getting at? Suggesting we take up the art of tap-dancing before our inevitable deaths? That’ll really show ‘em, Dream.”

Dream chokes on his laughter, gaining a tired smile from George. “ _ No _ , no, oh my god George, shut  _ up _ .” the words are cackled in between harsh giggles. “I  _ mean, _ we make their lives a living hell, right up until the end. I’m talking Class-A mischief here, Gogy. We fuck things up for them- spectacularly.”

George mulls it over. Dream waits. Finally, George shrugs with a, “Well, what are they gonna do, kill us?” They both struggle to quiet their semi-hysterical laughter- shoving their faces into blankets until they grow red and gasp for breath. 

“Okay then,” George says, after a while. “Mischief it is. If we’re gonna die, we’re doing it on our terms.” Dream looks to his friend- the only one he’s got. There’s no one else he’d rather go with. Light flickers from the little window again, setting the room in it’s monochrome glare. It’s a long time before either of them speak again, the mood too somber for words. 

Then, “How do you suppose we could start a fire under the dining table before Gleam wakes up tomorrow?” George asks, as one would ask the weather. 

Dream wheezes hard and whacks George with his pillow. The blaze they set under the table the next morning is indeed spectacular. 


	10. Act 2 Part 6: Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows this will hurt him. He’s always been to gentle for his own good. Her baby’s hands tremble hard on the hatchet. He’s scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: none that i caught, but let me know!
> 
> heyyyyyyyyy sorry this took so long guys- life's kicking me in the teeth right now. ty for your patience! im gonna try my very best to update more regularly

“One day,” Ma says, backlit by the leaf-speckled setting sunlight of a long spring day. “One day, I won’t be here anymore.”

She says it with finality and a grief that Dream is much too young to understand, only eight years old and bright and naïve to the world around him. Young enough that his face is bare, his signature mask not yet crafted for a few years still.

He looks up at her as if she were god. In his eyes, she is. She supposes that is what makes this so difficult. This is one of those many, many moments in which Ma wonders if what she’s doing is right. If this is the right move in raising her child. If this will help him, or do him more harm than good. Her boy’s hands clutch at her skirt, soft and little and grubby in the way that every child his age’s hands are. They are made for sewing and weaving and gathering. They are hands made for raising animals and waving animatedly during a story. Her boy has always leaned towards the softer side of life.

She heaves a rough breath, and hands him a small hatchet. He won’t learn to shoot for years, still. A hatchet will do. It feels heavy in his palms which are only just barely starting to toughen up from climbing and crafting and whatnot. It’s sharp, he can tell already just from the way the evening sun glints off the sharpened edge. Green cording runs its way up the handle for ease of grip. It’s nice- it looks expensive. Absently, Dream wonders what she traded for it. This is a tool made for hacking at wood, or slicing meat into thin strips like he’s seen his mother do before. Most of all, this is a tool for killing things. 

“It’s about time you learn to take care of yourself.”

He looks up at Ma’ with confusion, but doesn’t yet speak. He knows sometimes she gets like this- where she just needs to talk _at_ him instead of _to_ him. How sometimes, she stares into the late evening’s cookfire when she thinks he’s sleeping, and cries quietly about people she misses, family and friends, people whose names mean nothing to him. Dream thinks to himself, privately, that Ma’ might not be from the Wilds in the way he is. She has earned her place here, evidenced by her weathered palms and the happy life she’s created for them deep in the wilderness, but he was born here. He has never known anything else.

Dream belongs to no district, and sometimes, he feels terribly alone for it. He knows his mother loves him, knows it as deeply as he knows the sky is blue- but she will never understand truly what it is to be born off the grid and unaccounted for by the government. To the world, Dream does not exist. If he were to die, no one would be the wiser. Years from now, when Ma’ is gone and only Dream remains, there will be no one to help him, to patch the holes in his clothes and tie his hair back and catch dinner. That’s why-

“That’s why I’m going to teach you, Dream, honey.” Ma’ has sunk to his level and grasps his tiny hands between hers, the hatchet cradled by them both like a sinner cradles a rosary. Dream stares back at her, silent, but he’s always been a quiet child, so Ma’ hauls him up with a desperation he is unused to. She sets him on her hip and she walks with him until they find something. He hooks a hand in her short hair and whispers quiet as he dares, “Rabbit, Ma’.”

She starts, but Dream’s always had the better eyes of the two, and she sets him down. The animal is only a few yards away. He’s surprised it hasn’t heard them yet. The two crouch, mother and child in the bushes, when Ma’ turns to him. He listens with rapt attention. “I won’t always be here to feed you. If you don’t do this, you will never learn and someday you will grow hungry and cold, and you will die.” The look on her face shows that she knows how badly she’s beginning to frighten Dream, and the little beginnings of confused tears in his eyes only make it worse. She knows this will hurt him. He’s always been to gentle for his own good. Her baby’s hands tremble hard on the hatchet. He’s scared.

But it must be done. Ma’ points at the rabbit in the distance, face stony. There will be no argument here.

“Kill it.”

* * *

Dream sniffles wetly around bites of deliciously cooked rabbit. His tears have long dried, as has the blood on his hands from his first sloppy skinning and fire. Ma’ refused to help him with any of it, even when he cried or grew frustrated. Hunger had spurred him on, and in no time the sky had grown dark and he was nursing burnt and cut-up hands that Ma’ bandages gently. She also refused to eat any of his hard won food.

“Your kill, sweetie, your food.” She taps her finger on his chest as she works on his hands. “Yours. No one else’s. You work for what’s yours’ Dream, and ‘less you want to give it to someone, you don’t.”

Dream ponders this. “Mine. No one else’s. Not unless I want to.”

Ma’ smiles like she did when he lit the fire for the first time after an hour of nothing. Then she snorts a loud laugh as her little Dream unceremoniously shoves a handful of rabbit meat into her mouth. “It’s mine, and I want to,” is his only explanation as he turns back to stuffing his face. She tries not to burst into laughter around her mouthful. Her boy is much too kind for his own good.

Much later, after she’s tucked in a tired-out Dream for sleep, she practices her nightly routine of staring into the fire and thinking. Her Dream is soft, and kind. He can’t afford to be, but she knows that won’t stop him- no matter how harshly she teaches him. She hopes his kindness doesn’t kill him someday.

The next week, when Ma’ hands him the hatchet again to kill a boar this time, he doesn’t cry and the work is done within the hour. She sleeps easy that night, and knows that no matter what, her son will be able to protect himself, kindness be damned. She scoffs at herself for worrying so much. It’d be fine. They’d be fine. 

* * *

The crowds are overwhelming. It’s an understatement, but it’s true. George tries his best not to let motion sickness take his breakfast as he eyes the train windows. Hundreds of enthused Capitol citizens wave and cheer with large happy grins. They must be lined up for miles- there’s still a good few minutes left to the ride. It makes him sick- but he can’t tear his eyes away. The people here are odd, with confusing clothing in all different shades and shapes. There are colors he’s never seen before, the brightest hues of red and green and blue, holographic and shifting and glittering in ways that scream technological advancement. The shimmering pigments of the Capitol are artificial and mind bending enough that even _he_ can see them. Of course, George thinks to himself, of course the Capitol is so vain that they’d invent fabrics in shades that even the colorblind could see. It’s almost funny, how self-absorbed they are, but if he starts laughing now he won’t be able to stop- and that’d scare Dream for sure.

George glances at the aforementioned tribute, who sits in a ball on the floor, toes peeking out from the blanket he wrapped around himself when he gave up on looking through the window. George suspects Dream has never ridden on anything like the bullet train in his life, judging on how he threw up so spectacularly when the crowds of colorful people flew by at what looked like light speed. He drops a hand to Dream’s shoulder and rubs absentmindedly. Everything has to be feeling terribly new to him. Dream groans wordlessly, and emerges from his little blanket cocoon. “Trains are overrated, Gogy.”

George chuckles, and hauls his best friend up by the arms. “C’mon you big baby, we’re almost there.” Dream does his best impression of a 145 pound bag of rocks and sinks bonelessly into George’s arms, wrenching an “ _oof_ ” from the brunette. They end up in a pile on the floor and dissolve into laughter, and then Gleam clicks her way into the room. They both go silent, the humor drained out of the room. She gives them an unimpressed look. George knows Dream is glaring, even with the mask, because that’s just who Dream is. He smirks a little, as Dream has been giving the Capitol agent hell for the entirety of the month on this hellish ride.

Gleam studies her nails, long and pointed and a neon yellow color- the picture of uninterested poise.

“Good luck to you, boy,” She says, little emotion in her voice. It takes George a second to realize she’s talking to him. He takes his glasses off just so she can see him roll his eyes. Dream snorts at his side, and they both help each other up. The train is beginning to slow now. George glances back at the window, and the people still shout and grin and wave. He can see Dream beginning to look again too, and prickles in offense as peoples’ faces twist from glee into confusion at the sight of his friend’s mask.

“And you, _Dream,_ ” she hisses it with disgust and drama only she can muster. George is pretty sure his eyes flew into orbit just now from how hard he rolled them. Dream doesn’t even look at her, preferring to stare down the crowds of people with a single-minded intensity that George adores him for. She steps to Dream’s side and leans down to whisper something in his ear. George watches like a hawk and as soon as his friend tenses up he’s ready to do something rash- but Gleam steps back as quickly and she has approached. “Die quickly out there.”

George whips around with white hot anger, ready to give this woman a verbal _lashing,_ but Dream beats him to it. He can only gape in awe as Dream lifts his mask, baring his face- all freckles and little scars and angry green eyes.

Dream pauses for a moment, and even Gleam looks positively startled.

The train comes to a gentle halt, and the doors begin to whir open into a large runway leading up to the tallest building he’s ever seen. A rush of tepid Capitol air floods the car as Dream loudly hacks a glob of spit onto Gleam’s disgustingly expensive shoes. The entire car goes silent.

Dream slides his mask back down and spins on his heel, two Peacekeepers sidle up to escort them, and George doesn’t even struggle because he’s too busy laughing his ass off the entire way into the Tribute Housing building, drowning out Gleam’s enraged screaming.

* * *

Technoblade is good at keeping secrets. He in fact, is a part of one of the best kept secrets in Panem. Very few know of the remaining people of District 13. Hell, even the few elders who still _remember_ Thirteen don’t even know what’s become of it. War refugees, deserters, escapees- and the nearly three generations that came after their quiet relocation into Eleven. It was the perfect plan, as District 11 is the largest of all. People fly under the radar all the time, and none more so than Technoblade himself. He keeps to himself, farms the long expanses of potato fields and tries to scrape by. It’s hardly living- but he’s surviving. He makes visits to the nearest town; watches over the children while their parents toil away at their work. Tries not to think of the ones who will be reaped and that he will never see again. It hurts, but it’s a manageable pain. Techno has long grown used to the harshness of his district. It’s nothing like where he’s at now.

Everything in the Capitol is too… _soft_ in Technoblade’s opinion. Everything in the apartment is sleek or modern or dreadfully, _unbearably_ soft. The arid stretches of land and long days on the fields of District 11 he could handle, the Reaping he could handle, the moment of silence as his name was called and he was pulled to the front- for he would not grant the Capitol the satisfaction of watching him march to his own death. Even the train ride, as often as it made his heart leap up into his throat; he could handle.

_But this shit?_ Techno thinks, staring down at the plush shag carpet like if he maybe glares at it hard enough it’ll burst into flame- _this shit,_ is enough to drive him mad. The culture shock is immense, and all he wants to do is crawl into his bed back home in Eleven after the day he’s had.

The minute he and the little girl he’d been paired with (and isn’t that _painful_ , a child he’d seen through graduation, only fifteen and just beginning to make a life for herself) set foot in the building, they’d been whisked off to separate tiny curtained off areas, where a folded medical gown sat atop a raised platform. Two stylists in all their creepily smiling glory awaited him, before a tray of nail files and soap and creams and balms and all sorts of little torture devices. Techno had given them one look, raised an eyebrow, and plainly stated, “ _Absolutely_ not.”

He hadn’t hesitated to nail the first stylist in the jaw when he got a little too close to his hair with a pair of scissors- fascinated with the color, but then a Peacekeeper had come and pointed a gun at him and well, here he is now: standing on an irritatingly soft carpet, surrounded by riches of irritating amounts, and trimmed and scrubbed in ways that still feel irritatingly invasive, and waiting for morning, as he couldn’t sleep for the life of him. His tribute mate was the exact opposite (the girl hadn’t fared so luckily with her stylists, and now bore an unfortunate chin-length bob) and had conked out as soon as she hit the pillows of the gargantuan couch in the center of the living room. Techno isn’t envious, not at all. He likes to sleep, too, damn it, but whoever got picked out of District 12, in the apartment right above him, have been causing a ruckus for _hours._ It’s really starting to get on his nerves, and if he’s gonna die in a few days anyways, then fuck it, he’s gonna die well rested.

Technoblade marches across the living room, kicks open the door to the Capitol representative assigned to his district, because sometimes a bit of flair is good for the moment, and demands earplugs in a monotone so disturbing that the pajama-clad advisor can only stare him down in disbelief.

Within twenty minutes, Techno is sleeping dreamlessly and is blissfully unaware of the absolute chaos going on one floor above his head.

* * *

Dream hasn’t had this much fun in a long time. He heaves a laugh as he shoves the arm chair from the main room in front of Gleam’s door with a sickening screech of hardwood. They learned pretty quick into their trip that the woman sleeps with earbuds on- they have a running bet as to what’s playing. Dream is almost positive at this point that it’s straight up Capitol propaganda on loop, but George is _insistent_ that it’s classical. The furniture slots into place next to everything else the two managed to push against her door. The living room is hilariously barren now. Gleam is going to _lose it_ when she wakes up.

He stands back to observe their work, coffee tables and lamps and couches all piled up. He pointedly ignores the ‘work’ the stylists have done- feeling clean and smooth, but in a way that makes his skin crawl. George giggles and slaps at his arm repeatedly, and points to the refrigerator. His poor friend’s normally shaggy hair has been trimmed short into an undercut- but thankfully that’s where they stopped. He’s glad they didn’t try to mess with his overall ‘look’, probably put off when he had lifted his mask and snapped at some poor stylist.

-Right, the fridge. Now _that_ would be hard to move. Dream smiles, mask hanging at his hip so George can see him, but the grin fades quickly.

It’s stupid, _so_ fucking stupid, but the fridge reminds him of his mom. It was one of the only things that cheered her up when they’d first gotten captured. She hadn’t seen one in years, living past the gate, and she had been so excited about storing food. Dream had never seen one before in his life, and even the rickety piece of junk that they’d had in Twelve had seemed futuristic and grand. It makes him feel all the more foreign. George picks up on his fallen mood, because _of course_ he does, and tugs a bit on a strand of his hair where it brushes his lower back. “Where are you, dummy?” George says, softly.

Dream wants to just keep his mouth closed, wants to ignore it all, but he can’t. It’s George. It comes out in a rush, and the secret he’s been hiding under threat from Gleam spills out in a miraculous example of word vomit he can’t control. “I’m not from Twelve.”

He holds his breath when George’s face goes blank, and flinches when his best friend’s hands cup either side of his head and pull him so his forehead rests against his own. “I understand if you don’t want to be around me anymore, since- since I lied to you.” George scoffs, and he’s too scared shitless to even speculate as to what _that_ means as a social cue.

“Dream.”

The blonde draws a shuddering breath, almost a sob.

“Dream, you are my _best_ friend. I love you like you’re my blood, but you can be so dumb sometimes it hurts.” The last bit is said with a shit eating grin. Dream punches him in the arm and immediately gathers him up into a hug. “You _knew?_ ” He can’t tell whether he’s crying or laughing anymore. George runs a hand through his hair, sighing: “Anyone with _eyes_ knew, Dream, please. Twelve just knows how to keep a secret. There are plenty of illegal refugees from other districts. So what? You don’t come from a district? You’re different, but you’re _you.”_

Something about how he says it draws all the worry and fight out of Dream, and they end up curling up next to the big fancy fire place to sleep off their tears and laughter. They don’t sleep for hours yet, and Dream tells him everything; growing up lonely, killing his first Peacekeeper, the threat Gleam holds above his head like the blade of a guillotine at every waking hour, and George soothes his anxiety and fear, tells him about the first day he saw the other: halfway through mauling a Peacekeeper at the edge of the woods.

“Great first impression,” Dream laughs sleepily, curled into George’s side in the blanket-nest they’ve made.

“The best,” George smiles, sincere and heartwarming, and shuts his eyes.

Karma bites them in the ass when they’re woken up bright and early by Gleam’s enraged shouting. They know they’ve got to move everything back and let her out eventually, but that can wait after breakfast. It’s a big day after all.

Dream wonders what the week of training before doomsday will be like.

* * *

The life of a Gamemaker is simple. Schmooze with the politicians, garner support from the wealthiest among the Capitol, take orders from the top. Put on a show. Make it interesting. Get people to sit down and _watch._ Keep shit in line. It’s simple, really.

Schlatt is good at his job- pretty fucking amazing at it if you ask him, but every now and then he wishes that he hadn’t quit drinking. He could go for a whiskey sour right about now. The advisor for Twelve has been up his ass about her tributes, and he could care less, except the weirdo from Eleven broke a stylists’ jaw yesterday and for the icing on the cake, one of the tributes from Seven had smuggled a fucking guitar onto the train. Schlatt has no idea how or why, but he’s debating just letting the bastard keep it as his Tribute Token because he is _done_ with today. The intercom sounds off from the corner of his desk and he groans into his empty office, sipping on an imitation mojito. He waves a hand and a hologram blurs to life in a flash of royal blue. “What the fuck, Quack, it’s like, nearly midnight.”

His secretary sighs a long suffering sigh, and after telling Schlatt to go fuck himself in maybe three different languages, finally deigns to inform him: “Just thought you’d want to _know_ , that District Four’s train just arrived, dispshit.”

“This is important _, why?”_

“This is important _, boss,_ ” Little shit, he hates Quackity sometimes, even if he’s the closest thing to a friend he’s got. “Because it arrived with no fucking tributes.”

Schlatt breaks out the actual alcohol, because he’s going to need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment if u please! i worked extra hard on this one!


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